


The Aftermath of Reichenbach

by You_make_me_smile



Category: BBC series, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Female Character, POV First Person, it's been a long time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_make_me_smile/pseuds/You_make_me_smile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was dead.<br/>Your world had shattered when he hit the pavement. Your dreams drained away as his blood pooled on the sidewalk, matting those beautiful, dark curls to his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any characters and will do my best to keep each character true to BBC's depiction of them.

_Sherlock was dead_.

  
Your world had shattered when he hit the pavement. Your dreams drained away as his blood pooled on the sidewalk, matting those beautiful, dark curls to his head. You fingers curl slightly, remembering the softness as they slid between your fingers. Tears welled up in your eyes and your body shook with the effort of trying to hold back the sobs that threatened to break free. You would not cry. You would not allow yourself to scream and carry on like the world had ended.

  
_Your world has ended_. The small though came unbidden and unwanted. You shove it away.

  
To cry would be admitting to yourself that he was truly and utterly gone. Never to tease you, frustrate or confuse you again. You would never look upon those ever changing eyes to see the highly functioning sociopath; the great man who was well on his way to becoming a decent man as well. You would never see him waltz into the room with glee after he solved a particular difficult case or the relentless pacing he did as he worked through a problem. The frustrated sigh at someone’s idiocy or the dry comments of boredom.

  
_The violin_.

  
A sob tore through your throat and your will came crashing down. You pulled you knees to your chest as you sat in that worn armchair. The tears fell, cascading onto your knees, soaking them. Sobs wracked your body, releasing the pain; the grief you had held in for the past two days. A memory swims to the surface, vivid and real.

  
*******

  
You had been walking down a corridor in St. Bart’s, leaving the lab with dread in your heart. Sherlock had been quiet, even tender, as he spoke to you. His eyes studied your face as if trying to memorize every freckle, every strand of hair, every flaw. He gave you a sad smile and pulled you close. You felt his chest expand as he drew a deep breath, breathing in your scent. His face nuzzled your neck and his lips lightly brushed your skin. You shivered. This was not Sherlock, he had his tender moments but this was far beyond anything he had ever done. You pulled away slightly, trying to look into his eyes.

  
“Sherlock?” you asked, your voice full of concern, trying to discern the thoughts that could possibly be running through that beautiful mind of his. He avoided your eyes for a moment as he struggled to hide the emotion running through them. When he finally met your gaze, his face was composed and his eyes, unreadable. He let go of you and his lips quirked up into a tiny smile.

  
“Be safe darling.” He said, using the endearment you had enough called him. Cupping your face with both hands, he kissed you chastely on the forehead. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room, his coat swirling behind him. You stood in shock for a moment. Did he just call you darling? Did he just demonstrate a purely human action by kissing you? Something was very wrong. It felt too final, almost as that kiss was a kiss goodbye.

  
You ran for the laboratory door. Once in the hallway, there was no sign of the consulting detective. With long strides, you head for the stairwell. Something flies past the window.  
Not something, someone. Your brain corrects. Sherlock.

  
You race to window only to see his body collide with the sidewalk. Panic threatens to freeze in place but you force your legs to move. As you ran down each flight of stairs, terror replaced the panic. It gripped your heart and turned your blood to ice. You reach the door and throw it open, hitting a by-stander. You keep moving towards the group of onlookers, throwing an apology over your shoulder at their indignant shout. Time slowed as you pushed past the people standing in front of you. Sounds faded around you, your vision focused solely on Sherlock’s body. Blood was everywhere, in a pool around his head, on his face, seeped into his beloved coat. You reached out to touch him when a familiar voice reached you ears. A hand grabbed onto the detective wrist, checking for a pulse, for anything that would indicate that he was alive.

  
_John. John’s a doctor. He can save Sherlock_.

  
John sat back on his heels, his eyes brimming with tears. You move again, the shock finally releasing you. You kneel beside John and pull him close, wrapping your arms tightly around him. He leaned into you, his body shuddering, grieving. Together you wept, not for the arrogant detective or the fraud. Together, you cried for the friend who had taken his own life.

  
*********

  
Eventually the sobs subsided, allowing you to straighten in your chair. You watched the rain drops flow down the window pane, matching the tears that fell from your eyes. You took comfort in the thought that the weather was grieving with you, however irrational it may be. The quiet strains of a violin snaked through your thoughts, making the rain seem like it was dancing.

  
*********

The violin’s melody, sad yet joyful played perfect host to your thoughts, matching them in melancholy. Sherlock had composed it after you had complained that no one had ever wrote about the rain, at least not in a way that felt like rain. Sad and depressing yet bringing health and life to all living things. He had spent weeks, writing this particular piece. Sherlock had wanted it to be perfect before allowing you to hear it. He wouldn’t let you look at the sheet music nor be in the same building when he worked on it. Sherlock waited until he felt the moment was right before catching you unaware with it. You had been sitting on the window ledge, watching the rain, when you heard the music. You closed your eyes and listened in rapture. As the rain fell and the violin played, your fingers had started to move, tapping gently on your leg. Sherlock had noted this and coaxed the violin to make the sounds sweeter and more brilliant, entrancing you further. For a few unguarded moments, Sherlock had witnessed what you had so diligently tried to repress. Something he had always suspected in the way you held your fingers, the way you listened with a well-tuned ear to the music of others. He never commented on it after you had jolted and jammed your fingers under your legs, he only continued to play as the rain fell.

  
********

A phone rang causing your fingers to freeze and the violin to fade. You ignore the phone and willed the music to come back. You tried desperately to recall that memory back to life but it refused to obey. You sighed and stared at the rain, not seeing what was on the outside, not that it mattered, everything was grey and colourless.

  
********

  
Again the violin began to play, the melody gentle and quiet. A lullaby, an unconscious memory. Something Sherlock played when you stubbornly refused to go to sleep. After arguing with you for several minutes why you needed to sleep so he could think without interruptions, he threw his hands up in exasperation before picking up his violin and tuning it.

  
“Perhaps this will persuade you.” He said, a wicked glint in his eye. He began to play, watching you closely. He saw you eyelids droop before you forced them open. He turned his back and continued to play, knowing that you would keep your eyes open if he watched you. Helpless, the music lulled you sleep.

  
“Not fair” you had murmured into the pillow and you thought you heard a chuckle as the blanket was tucked under your chin.

  
******

  
Your phone rang again, sounding a little more insistent this time and once again the violin faded. Angrily, you threw the phone across the room, feeling satisfied as it hit the wall with a resounding thud. Why could people understand you wanted to grieve? You couldn’t look at people without hearing Sherlock’s baritone accurately describing them in one breath. You never understood why people got offended and outraged when he did this. It was amazing the level of observation he had, and the ability to deduct what he saw from scrap of clothing to a food crumb to a stain.

  
_Oh Sherlock_.

  
The phone rang for a third time; the tiles it had landed on increased the volume of the sound. Grumbling, you rose to turn the phone off or break it. You hadn’t decided yet. Your body protested after sitting so long and all your crying had made your muscles ache. You bent down to retrieve the phone when a dent in the door caught your attention. In front of you was a closet door, one that hadn’t been opened since you moved into the flat. There were memories in that closet, ones that you had shoved in there and tried to forget but after the death of Sherlock, they came bubbling to the surface, angry at being ignored for all those years. You carefully opened the door and took a deep breath. Smells of old books, cinnamon and smoke brought back a flood of memories of different times. Your eyes roamed the closet, hungry for the comfort those items had offered. They stopped on a taller item that had a dust blanket draped over it. You pull that dust blanket off, causing the dust to swirl around your feet and making you sneeze. The dust settled and you stared at that keyboard; its black and white keys shining dimly in the closet light. Carefully, you place your prize in front of your armchair. You gently trail you fingers along the keys as memories began to play in your head; memories of your granddad. Memories of his deep booming laugh, echoing through the empty auditorium where he had taught you how to play. How his knowing green eyes sparkled with pride as you played your first composition for him. His comforting arms, hugging you and offering a shelter when everything else in your world came crashing down. You fingers moved, silently recalling the piece you had played for his funeral.

  
The phone buzzed angrily and you kick it under the couch, returning to your memories. An idea came to you and you re-entered the closet for the second time in all those years. With a little searching, you find a large black binder with silver scroll work around the corners resting in bin at the back of the closet. Cradling it like a baby, you open the cover. Your granddad’s cramped handwriting fills the first page and with it a song he had written when you were born. You turn the page to stop the onslaught of tears. Music sheets greeted you like old friends, their melodies, their harmonies, written in a child’s scrawl covered the pages. You return to your chair and run a hand across that first page. Your eyes closed and a small reminiscent smile reaches your lips. It felt like hours as your memories swept you away and you explore the feelings that they brought with them. Eventually you reached a blank page, the stark black lines and pristine white waiting for the transformation that would change them from ordinary into extraordinary.

  
You plug in the keyboard and press the power button. The instrument hums into life and sits patiently as you decide what to play. You empty your mind and let your fingers move on their own accord. The piece was the last piece you had ever played; your granddad’s song. You pause, searching for a melody, one that represented Sherlock yet one that represented you and your relationship. You allow your fingers to dance along the keys as you explored your memories of Sherlock, your ears straining for that perfect melody. Once, in all those jumbled notes, you thought you heard it but something about it wasn’t right. It didn’t sound like him, like the rise and fall of his voice, the volatility for his moods and the tenderness in his touch.


	2. John

A knock at the door.

  
‘ _Go away_.’ You thought at it, hoping the person on the other side could telepathically read your thoughts. You go back to playing the melody, shift the notes to different keys, trying to make them fit.  
Another knock and a voice, this time, to accompany it.

  
‘ _GO AWAY_!’ You mentally scream at the door and the person at the other side. You continue to play, the melody was almost right, the phrasing wrong.  
A warm hand was placed on your shoulder and you involuntarily flinch. A voice again; a familiar one, drawing you back to present.

  
‘ _John’s voice_.’ Your brain identified it and you stand up to pull him into a fierce hug. John’s arms immediately wrap around you, offering that same shelter your granddad once had. You place your face against his neck and tears sprang to your eyes once again. You let them fall without any shame and you feel John’s arms tighten around you. As you inhaled, the scent of John rose to your nose. He smelled of laundry soap, tea and bacon. He still smelled like John and that was at least one thing in your world that was constant and unchanging.

  
“You weren’t answering your phone.” He said with accusatory note in his tone. “I was worried.”

  
Your face flushed and you filled with a deep sense of guilt. This man, your friend, was in just as much pain as you and you selfishly had kept to yourself, shutting the world out. You spoke an apology into his neck and you feel his muscles tighten for a moment before pulling you back to properly look at you. He took in your bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them, your tear stained face, and the fact you still wore the clothes on the day Sherlock had jumped. John’s eyes soften.

  
“You look like you’ve been through hell.” he joked, a small smile lighting his face. John wrinkled his nose, “You smell like it too.” You almost smile and causing John’s smile to widen.

  
“There’s the ________ I know. You go take a shower and I will make some tea.” John ordered; his tone light. You gave him a watery smile and head towards the shower, lost in thought. The melody still playing in your head, still wrong somehow. You turn the water on and strip off the dirty clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. You climb into the shower and let the hot water rush over you, flowing through your hair, down your face and into your ears. The water effectively cut out any other noise and you were left with your thoughts. Another memory came to the surface.

  
******

  
After a particularly difficult case that resulted mucking through a boggy area to find a particular plant who’s nectar could kill if mixed correctly in a herbal tea, you were looking forward to a hot shower. The smell that was coming off of you assaulted your nose and probably every other nose in a five block radius. You climbed the stairs to the boys’ flat and headed straight for the bathroom. You had left Sherlock and John at the cab, arguing about the proper decorum in which to pay a cab driver. You enter the bathroom, close the door and started the shower before turning to face the mirror. There were several scratches on your face and a cut that probably required some medical attention. Small wonder the cabbie was staring at you the way he did. You looked like and smelled like you got in a fight with a bog beast. Striping off your clothes, you examine the rest of your body. A couple of bruises and a minor scrape, not bad considering you had tripped over every unseen root and rock. You climb into the shower, closing the curtain before letting out a sigh of contentment. As the hot water ran down your body, you stretch and feel your muscles relax in response to the warmth. You heard a door slam and judging by the volume, it was Sherlock’s bedroom door. He was probably sulking after John's lecture. You start to hum as you lathered the shampoo in your hair, missing the sound of the bathroom door opening. Suddenly the shower curtain flew to the side and you turn quickly, almost losing your balance on the slick floor of the tub. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself in an attempt to cover some of your nudity. Sherlock stood with a towel wrapped around his waist and a shocked look on his face.

  
“_________, I didn’t realize. “ He said, averting his eyes and moved towards the door. You began to pull the shower curtain shut when Sherlock slipped on a puddle of water that had pooled on the floor. Flailing, he grabbed the shower curtain out of your hand in attempt to stay upright. The rod holding up the shower curtain slipped from the wall and hit the floor, along with Sherlock in a resounding thud. You were silent for a moment, processing what had just happened. The usually coordinated detective was lying on the floor, entangled in a shower curtain. He let out a groan and slowly sat up.

  
“Are you okay?” You asked, your voice ringing with supressed mirth. He turned his head to give you a withering glare when the bathroom door swung open and John entered the room.

  
“I heard a noise. Are you alright?” He said before freezing. The look on his face as he took in Sherlock on the floor and you standing, naked and wet in the running shower , added to the hilarity of the scene in front of you and you collapsed into a fit of laughter.

**********

  
You climb out of the shower, feeling a little more human. Looking in the mirror, you see a person who's face is drawn and tired. You put on some loose trousers, a sweatshirt and wrap your hair up in a towel. Heading back to the living room, you found John sitting on the couch, staring out the window. Two steaming cups of tea sat on the table in front of him along with some biscuits. He looked up as you enter and gives you a small smile.

  
“Feeling better?” he inquired before handing you a cup of tea. You nod your thanks before taking a seat in your armchair. John’s face matched yours. His eyes were red-rimmed from tears he stubbornly refused to shed and dark bags had appeared, revealing his lack of sleep. There was stubble along his typically clean-shaven jaw and his clothes were terribly wrinkled. You caught sight of his hands and found that they were trembling. You felt guilt begin to grow when you realized in your attempt to shut the world out, you had push John away too. Now here he was offering you comfort when he needed it just as much as you.

  
“John…” You began, searching for the right words to express the reasoning behind your actions. His eyes flicked to your face and he shook his head, indicating he didn’t want to hear your excuses. Silence fell once more; the only sound was the hum of the keyboard.

  
“What were you playing just now?” John asked, turning the conversation to a topic that was easier for both of you to talk about. You shrug and finally say, “I am composing. Or at least I was trying to.” You glance at the papers that were covered in a jumble of notes; notes that had been crossed off and rewritten. “I can’t get the melody to sound right.”

  
“Well let’s hear it then.” John said, looking at you expectantly. You didn’t move, staring into your tea.

  
“Please play it _______. Sometimes it helps to have someone listen to it although Sherlock never …” His voice cracked and your eyes flew to his face, filled with concern. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to get his emotions under control. You set your tea on the table beside you and placed your fingers on the keys.

  
“I apologize in advance for assaulting your ears. “ You said causing a smile to creep onto John’s face. As you begin to play, John closed his eyes, listening. This is how you could help ease his pain as well as yours. Your granddad had said that music, no matter what kind, had a way of comforting a troubled soul and easing their pain. You could hear the mistakes you were making and you winced each time but John never moved. You didn’t stop but unconsciously changed the song into something softer; the accompaniment for Sherlock’s violin and its beautiful song about the rain. The one you had started to composed while sitting on the window ledge in Sherlock's flat. You thought about it every time it rained, which was frequent in London, and every time you added a little more to the piece. As you play, the violin supplements its part in your head. Once again, you were drawn back into that memory and the only things you could hear were the keyboard and the violin.

  
“Beautiful. That last part. “John said, breaking through your reverie. You start and realize that you had stopped playing. You flushed and mumble an apology.

  
“It sounded familiar. Like something Sherlock played.” John continued. You nod, not looking at him.  
John tried again, “I would agree that the first song you played needs work. The notes don’t flow together like what you just played."

  
“I’ll find something that fits. It’s just a rough draft.” You finally said in a quiet voice. John moved from the couch and placed an arm around your shoulder.

  
“Well, try to make it sound a little more arrogant with a dash of self-righteousness.” John said, his voice infused with humor. You smile and realized how much you missed the company of your friend. He was always able to find humor in the worse situation; always knew the right words to say to coax a smile out of you.  
John’s phone rang and he grimaced at the caller’s name.

  
“Mycroft?” You asked, knowing the answer. That look was only reserved for two people, both related, one of them recently deceased.

  
“It’s not a good time, Mycroft.” John said before pausing to listen. You move over to the window and notice a black car sitting on the street.

  
“You might as well tell him to come up.” You said with a sigh. There was little love lost between two of you. John repeated what you had said and you watched the tall, lean man get out of the back seat of his car. He opened his umbrella and headed for the door.  
A few moments later there was a knock on the door and you took a deep breath and counted back from ten before opening it.

  
“Hello Mycroft. Here to grace with your presence?” You greet him in forced cheerfulness. Mycroft arched his eyebrow at you.

  
“Insolence is unbecoming even in the lowest of creatures.” Mycroft replied before stepping inside you flat, the look of aversion on his face. He was well dressed as usual and he obviously not lost any sleep over the death of his sibling. There was not a hair out of place. No sadness or remorse in his cool, blue eyes; not that you expected to see any. No sentiment for Mycroft. Sentiment was for baser creatures as he has stated to Sherlock many times within your presence.  
Mycroft sat down in your armchair and motioned for you and John to sit on the couch. Once you settled, Mycroft began to speak in that professional tone of his, fixing both of you with a cool gaze, his eyes and voice devoid of emotion.

  
“Since my brother has succumbed to the pressures of the witless commonwealth, I have been burdened with arranging his funeral.” His tone told you that he would much rather do anything else then arrange a mawkish gathering of people to bid farewell to his younger brother.

  
“I have arranged that my brother’s funeral will take place Saturday at West Haven Funeral Parlor, commencing at 4pm. I do hope you will come. “ Mycroft finished.

  
“Have you arranged for a cake to be there as well, Mycroft? To give you incentive to go?” You said, your voice quiet and spiteful. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and fixed you with a hard stare. Normally, you would be the first to break the gaze but this time, the anger that fueled your words, strengthened your resolve. You hated that the most powerful man in Britain had done nothing to save his sibling but then again, in Mycroft's eyes, Sherlock had probably outlived his foreseeable usefulness. John cleared his throat, causing both of you to look at him.

  
“Er… Is there anything you need us to do? To help with the funeral?” John asked, attempting to ease the tension. Always the peace keeper.

  
“All the arrangements have been made.” Mycroft answered before rising from the chair. He walked to the door and opened it.

  
“Do be there.” He said making it clear that this was not a choice.. As an afterthought, he added, “ ________, do try to be a little more presentable.”

  
Mycroft exited your flat and left you glaring at the door. You clench your hands as you tried to wrestle your anger back into submission.

  
“It was never hard to tell that Sherlock and Mycroft were related. Although, Mycroft is probably the bigger arsehole out of the two of them.” John said, injecting humor into his tone. You slowly let out the breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding.

  
“Cheers to that.” You said quietly, causing to John to laugh. Feeling drained, a yawn escaped your lips and caused John to yawn in response. Your lips quirked into a smile.

  
“Even when he’s gone, you and I can’t seem to get any sleep.” You commented, your tone light.

  
“Time for bed then. “ John said, taking your hand and leading you into your bedroom. “Do you mind if I stay the night? It’s been.. ah.. lonely.”

  
You hand him a pillow and blanket off your bed. “Of course, John. “

  
“Thank you. I will be on the sofa if you need anything” He said, moving towards the door.

“Goodnight ______.”

  
“Goodnight John.” You reply as you removed the wet towel and drop it on the floor. The door shuts gently as you climb into bed and despite your fear of falling asleep, your eyelids slide shut and you fell into a troubled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has always reminded me of a mother hen, looking after the needs of his children or in this case, his friends, before looking after his own. Bless that man. 
> 
> If you have any comments or feed back, feel free to let me know.


	3. A Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will apologize in advance. I realized this one is short but it was the most appropriate spot to end it.

 

_The sky was black and the clouds it held were pregnant with rain. You were out for your usual jog hoping to make it home before the rain fell. You rounded the corner to find Sherlock pacing the sidewalk, his face dark. His hands waved in front of him as if clearing away discarded thoughts. He would stop periodically and look up at the sky._

_No, he was looking at the top of the building. St. Bart’s._

_You immediately recognize the grey and ageing brick. You look at your surroundings and fear rises to the surface, causing your throat to close. This was the exact spot where Sherlock had hit the pavement. He was treading repeatedly over where his body had landed broken and bloodied._

_“Sherlock?” You ask in an uncertain voice. He raises a finger to silence you. “What happens when a body hits a pavement from_ _this height?” He muttered, staring at the top of the building._

_"They die, Sherlock.” You answer. “Fractured skull, broken neck, profuse bleeding, not to mention, major damage to the heart as it slams into the back of the chest cavity, fractured ribs, legs and ankles. A mass amount of internal hemorrhaging.” You quoted the report that came back from the coroner’s office._

_He stopped and looked at you, a strange light in his stormy blue eyes. “That is oddly insightful of you _______.” Your name rolls off_ _his tongue, making you shiver, knowing you will never hear it again. He continued his pacing and muttering. Unable to take it any longer, you step into his path. He stops abruptly, fixing you with a bleak look._

_"There is no other way.” The resignation in his voice was enough to bring tears to your eyes._

_“There is another way. There is always another way Sherlock, always another possible outcome.” You said, your voice soft. “You just need to keep thinking.” The tears start to slip down your face. He lifted his hands and cupped your face, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears that had fallen. You close your eyes, craving the warmth of his hands._

_“Not this time. Not if I want you to live.” The sadness in his baritone penetrated your ears and caused more tears to spill from your eyes. You open your eyes to study his face, memorizing the tenderness in it, the emotions that were flickering through his eyes. Those beautiful, intelligent eyes. His lips quirked up in a small_ _smile and he pulled you into a tight hug._

_“Never in my wildest dreams, nor my thoughts, would I have ever predicted this.” He murmured into your hair._

_"That's because you're an idiot." You whispered into his neck. You could tell he was smiling and a laugh rumbled through his chest. The same laughter you heard on the day you met. The sound resonate to the depth of you soul and you tighten your grip around him._

_Sherlock’s phone rings. You step out of his embrace so he could pull it out of his coat pocket. He answers it, his face growing hard. His eyes sharpened and he glances at the top of the building. Placing his phone back into his pocket with a sigh. He runs his hand through his mess of curls before looking at you once more, his eyes penetrating and direct._

_“Be safe, darling.” He said finally before kissing your forehead and striding to the door, his coat snapping at his ankles. He pulled it open and disappeared. You tried to follow but a rush of people_ _prevented you from reaching the door. People began to stop and form a circle around you, not letting you leave no matter how hard you push. A feeling of dread made your stomach turn. You look up to see Sherlock step off the building and his body hurtles towards you. You scream his name, you voice shrill and piercing. He hits the_ _sidewalk and you jolt._

*************

Your bedroom come into view as the dream fades and you see John standing in the doorway, his face filled with concern.

“John.” You breathed and held your arms out to him. John climbed on your bed and embraced you. He began to rock back in forth, as a mother would her child.

“John. It was Sherlock. He fell…” You felt hot tears spill from your eyes and your throat swelled. “He fell so fast. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t catch him.” You choke out amid the sobs that shook your body. 

“Shhh… ______it’s okay. “ He said in a comforting tone, one that acted as a salve to your raw emotions. You eventually stop sobbing but you couldn’t stop the shaking, the terror of the dream still present at the forefront of your thoughts. The sense of loss, heavy in your heart. John moves to leave and irrational fear took a hold of you and you couldn’t let go of John. You felt that if John walked out your bedroom door, you would never seen him again. You knew that you wouldn't be able to cope with that loss. You couldn't lose both of them.

“Stay with me, John.” You pleaded. John gently pulled away and untangled your fingers from his shirt. “Please, John."

After a moment of indecision, John sighed and crawled under the coverd. He lay down on his back and you place your head on his chest, aligning your body with his. His heart beat was steady, a lullaby; its rhythm sure and certain. John shifted slightly, his arms tightening protectively around you. You close your eyes and listen as John’s breath slowed and deepened, his heart beat lulling you into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter I found that it seems to be leaning towards a John/Reader fanfic but that is not the case. John's relation with the Reader is strictly platonic. It's one of those relationships that no matter where you go or what you do, that friend with always be there for you and is always willing to go the extra mile to make sure you're happy.
> 
> As always feedback is appreciated. :)


	4. The Song of Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please have a listen to the song posted at the end after reading the chapter. It is to help envision the song that you the Reader are playing.  
> I don't own the rights to this song but am only using it as a tool to enhance the enjoyment of the reader.

The sun woke you the next morning, flickering on your face. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to go back to sleep. You wanted continue to exist in the emptiness of limbo, not feeling, not thinking, just existing. For one small moment, with the sun warming your face, you forgot the tragedy that shattered your world. Any moment now, Sherlock would be sending you a text, demanding if you had finished the toxicology tests he needed for his current case.  

Painfully, the realization hits you like a double decker bus hurtling down the road. The pain closes around you and tears once again, form in your eyes.  There would be no more demanding texts from Sherlock, no more phone calls that interrupted your sleep. You glance at John, finding him still asleep. Some of the weariness and stress had been smoothed away while he slumbered, leaving him with a peaceful look on his round face. Carefully, you ease yourself out his arms and cross the bedroom to close the curtain. John needed to sleep. You couldn’t count the number of days that you had both went without sleep as Sherlock led you on a merry chase throughout London.

You stifle a whimper that threatened to break the silence of the bedroom. Quickly you leave, shutting the door softly behind you. You lean up against the wall and attempted to regain your composure. In the quiet of your flat, your stomach grumbled, reminding you that the last thing you had eaten was a piece of toast the previous morning. Fighting back the fresh tears, you head towards the kitchen to make some tea and toast. You begin to hum; it was an unconscious habit, much like someone chewing their nails or playing with their hair. Sherlock had complained about it breaking his concentration often enough. After switching on the kettle on, you pop some bread into the toaster. You lift a mug out of the cupboard and turn to set it on the counter. You froze in mid-turn as you realize what you had been humming. The cup fell from you hand, unnoticed, and shattered on the floor.  It was a melody. No, **the** melody. The one you had searched for in vain the night before. You moved towards the keyboard, stepping through the broken pieces of the mug; the melody growing in volume the closer you got to the instrument. It was already humming with power, having not been shut off after Mycroft’s visit. You placed your fingers on the keys, hesitating. You let out a breath and reached for a pen, jotting the notes down quickly in fear that you would forget them. Once the melody was safely written on your paper, you placed your fingers on the awaiting black and white keys. Your fingers move slowly as if caressing each key, coaxing out each note, filling your ears and letting the melody spread through the entirety of your being. You played it repeatedly, committing it to memory, listening to the rise and fall, creating a soundtrack for your memories. You corrected it a couple times, adding joy to some parts and sadness to others. Eventually, you begin to add the underlying chords and harmonies.

A sound created a discord to your melody and you look up to find John in the entrance to the living room.

 “Jesus Christ.”  John moved quickly towards you and lifted up your foot to look at it. With nothing to distract you, your foot began to throb.  You noticed the patch of blood on the tiled floor and the trail of blood leading back the kitchen. In your impatience to write down the melody, you had cut your foot on the shattered mug. John rose to get a towel and the first aid kit from your bathroom before returning and set about sterilizing the cut.

“What were you doing? Did you not notice you were bleeding?” He asked, crossly as he poured some disinfectant on the cut. You wince as the wound began to sting and bubble.

“The melody that I was trying to play last night came to me this morning while I was making tea. I guess I was in such a rush to write it down, I must have dropped the mug and walked through it. I’m sorry.” You tell him, willing for him to forgive you. He sighs and you see his brow furrow for a moment before relaxing.

“No harm done. It doesn’t require stitches, so no hospital visit for you.” He said, before bandaging your foot. He thought about the word he had just used and winced. A small shudder runs through you. If you ever saw another hospital, it would be too soon. As he rose to return the first aid kit to the bathroom, you thought you heard him mumble something about bloody musicians. This comment caused a smile to break on your face. Sherlock had been the same way when he was composing, oblivious to the world around him. Nothing existed but himself and the violin. You dwell on the last song he had composed; a lament to the late Irene Adler. The news that Irene Adler had been killed made you wriggle inside with glee. You should have felt guilty or at least sad about her death but she had been an unwelcome and unwanted addition to your life.

 

******

It was Christmas and the snow was falling lightly from the sky. You sighed happily as you took in the twinkling lights and the smiles on the faces of people around you. Smells from the bakery you had just passed filled the air with scents of cookies, freshly baked bread and nutmeg. You wondered for a moment if you should stop and get something for the gathering at 221B Baker Street. You were already late and Sherlock was likely to comment on it as he always did. You quickened your step, the sounds of the carollers at the corner reaching your ears. You smile before pulling your jacket a little tighter on around you. It was cold but there was something wonderful in the crisp air that filled your lungs. You reached the flat and a violin could be heard. Glancing up, you could see Sherlock's tall silhouette in the window.  Without bothering to knock, you open the door and climbed the stairs, the voices growing louder as you got closer to the landing.

You enter the flat and are greeted with a chorus of Happy Christmases. Sherlock finished his song and graced you with a rare grin. John took you coat and you took a seat in John’s armchair, placing the bag of gifts you had brought at your feet. Greg asked if you had wanted a drink and you shook your head politely. You wanted to memorize every moment of this Christmas.

“What were you just playing, Sherlock?” You asked turning to meet the detective’s gaze.

“An ordinary, therefore boring, Christmas carol. Mrs. Hudson’s request.” He drawled though you could see the glint of humor in his eyes.

“This is the one time of the year that the boys have to indulge me.” Mrs. Hudson said with a doting smile. She teetered on the edge of her chair and you knew she had been drinking, probably a little too indulgent herself. You return the smile and bask in the warmth around you. It had been a long time since you had enjoyed Christmas and you were determined that this year would be a good one. Sherlock came to sit on the arm of his chair with his violin resting on his lap, observing the people in the room. You pull your feet on to the chair and watch him. The small lights from the mantle relaxed his sharp face and illuminated his curls with a soft glow. He meets your stare with a look of mild amusement. You grin and gestured to the violin.

“Will the great violinist play another song for his adoring audience?” You ask in a teasing tone. Sherlock stands up, bringing the violin up to his chin and with a dramatic flair, places the bow against the strings. He looks at you for a moment with an eyebrow arched.

“A preference, miss?” He inquired, his eyes never leaving your face.

You smile and tilt you head slightly, “I think you know which song I want to hear.” You had only been listening to it on repeat for the past three days. Sherlock had been so irritated by the repetitive music; he rose from his chair, and plucked the Ipod off the table. You had stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was going to do with it. Without a word, he had stalked to the window, opened it and flung the Ipod out into the street.

He turned towards the window and sighed but his long fingers were already moving, picking out the quick notes of an Irish reel. You closed your eyes and listened, a smile on your face. You knew full well that by listening to that song repeatedly in his presence, Sherlock would have memorized the song fairly quickly and transposed it into music for the violin.  

Footsteps were heard coming up the stairs and Molly entered the room. John, playing the perfect host, helped her out of her coat and moved to hang it up. Sherlock finished his song with flair and turned to greet Molly. His eyes narrowed at her attire and you could see his mind whirling.

“Happy Christmas Sherlock.” She said quietly, a flush rising in her face. Without provocation, Sherlock launched a verbal attack at Molly. Molly had stood there quietly, absorbing his words, her face growing red with embarrassment. You met John’s gaze and saw your alarm reflected in his eyes.

“Sherlock!” You shout, your voice joined by several others. He looked slightly confused at everyone’s indignation. His mobile sounded, a female moan of pleasure breaking the shocked silence. Mrs. Hudson shifted in her chair, tutting quietly. He quickly read the text before moving towards the fireplace. You watch as he picked up a box from the mantle, its wrapping blood red in colour. You immediately recognize who the present is from and desperately wish that there in good reason for her to yet again intrude on your life. To your surprise, Sherlock apologized to Molly almost immediately, kissing her on the cheek and disappeared to his room, closing the door behind him.

You get up from you chair and take Molly’s hand, giving her a reassuring smile.

“You look lovely tonight, Molly. He is just being a prat.” You said your voice full of warmth. Molly returned gave you an uncertain smile in return. You let go of her hand and walk down the hall to Sherlock’s room, John hot on your heels. John paused to knock but you just throw the door open and enter.

“What is the matter with you?” you said angrily. “It’s Christmas and that woman you so viciously attacked is your friend. Without her, Sherlock, you would be bored out of your skull without all of the body parts she supplies for your ridiculous experiments!”  Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t take his attention of the mobile in front of him, ignoring you.

“Is that the phone? **The** phone?” John asked emphasizing ‘the’. Sherlock doesn’t deem his question worthy of a response. You leave the room, feeling irritated and annoyed. You plaster a smile on your face and head back to the people in the living room.  Sherlock eventually left the flat, leaving John and yourself to play host and hostess for remainder of the party. Eventually people began to leave. Molly received a call from work; there was a new body to process. Greg headed out to join his family for Christmas and Mrs. Hudson retired to her flat. John’s latest girlfriend, whatever her name was, left in a huff and you felt sorry for the man. Sherlock had ruined both of your Christmases with one fell swoop. You reached down and pulled a large box from the bag you had brought over. Rising from the chair, you moved over to the couch and handed John the box.

“Happy Christmas John.” You said in an apologetic tone. He offered you a small smile before opening the gift. A new jumper to replace the one that Sherlock had put holes in trying to establish a timeline for a mild acid he had gotten his hands on.

********

A tinkling of broken ceramic draws you out of the memory and you see John cleaning up the mug. You pick the towel the floor and wipe your blood off the floor. The kitchen was filled with the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of eggs. John emptied the dust pan into the bin and you toss the bloodied towel on top of the shards. John washes his hands and turns back to the stove, moving the bacon across the pan. You wash your hands as well, scrubbing to remove the remnants of your blood. You replace the forgotten toast with new bread and push it down. Neither of you spoke, there was no need, moving around each other in well-practiced movements. This had been a frequent routine at Baker Street when you had stayed over. Sherlock was a light sleeper and neither of you had wanted to a dragon that earlier in the morning. You set the table and John brought the food over. You quickly butter your toast, watching the white pads of butter soak into the bread as it melted. You didn’t like cold toast.

Breakfast was silent other than the occasional comment about the food. Together, you tided up the table and the kitchen.  Once the dishes had been put away, John settled himself on the couch and you in your armchair. John watched you eye the keyboard.

“Let’s hear it.” He said, nodding at the keyboard.

“It’s not finished yet.” You reply quickly, glancing down at the unfinished song.

“Just play the bloody song.” He growled, his tone teasing.

“Right away, O great healer.” You quickly bow your head and place you fingers on the keys. The melody flows easily from your right hand, your left beginning to add the chords and harmonies. You closed your eyes and you see memories flicker across the back of your eye lids. Emotions wash through your body accompanying those memories and enhancing them. The frustrated feeling when Sherlock was being particularly haughty; the day you had met, the rain driving you to take shelter in their flat; his almost childish sense of humor; the sarcasm when you had been slow to comprehend the crime scene in front of you; the adrenaline rush; the feeling of being useful.

You slow down the on memories of Irene Alder, almost coming to a complete stop. You push those memories aside and continued to play. The keyboard grew louder with the strength of your memories. Your friendship had grown stronger, Sherlock’s human side growing and developing, drawing him out that carefully maintained shell of his; your fondness for his antics as well as the infuriation in them; the tenderness he had showed you in the lab prior to his death. You slowed, attempting to delay the inevitable end, knowing that there was no happy ending to this story. A gloomy note ended the song, reflecting the pain you had to bear. Everyone had to bear. You open your eyes and find John. His eyes were closed, his breath ragged as he fought the currents of emotions raging inside of him. You play the song again to fill the silence, to combat the sounds coming from John; giving him more time to compose himself.

You feel the rightness of the song as it falls together, the sensation resounds in your heart and you knew that this was Sherlock. This was neither the famous life of the world’s consulting detective nor the story of a fraud, or a liar, or a psychopath, or even a high functioning sociopath. This was the story of the Sherlock Holmes, the man in the funny hat, the violinist, your best friend and companion.   

“Perfect.” John breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQME-ChSwNM  
> I know that this is from Twilight but every time I listen to it, I hear the life of Sherlock. It starts out quietly and slow like his friendship with John and of course the Reader. It slows and almost pauses through what I imagine to be Irene Adler, a miserable time for all participants. The song picks up speed and volume and gives the feeling of flying, one akin to the feeling that life is at its best. Again it slows and becomes quiet, a reflection of the tenderness at the lab. The song ends leaving the listener with a sad and empty feeling much like the death of our beloved Sherlock.
> 
> As always, please leave feedback. It makes my day to hear the opinions and thought of the people who read this story.


	5. Cheese Biscuits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Hopefully you enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome.

You took your fingers from the keys and moved to sit beside John. You put your head on John’s shoulder and let the tears flow freely down your cheeks. John slid his arm around you and gave you a squeeze. You sat in a companionable silence, each lost in your own thoughts but at least you were not alone.

“If there was there was any song that captured Sherlock, the arse that he is…er… was, it would be that one.” John said brushing stray tears from his face with his free hand.

“What are we going to do John?” You asked quietly, studying the faded pattern on the carpet. John shifted so he could see your tear stained face. His face was solemn though the wrinkles in his forehead betrayed his worry. He gently brushed the tears from your cheeks.

“I don’t know _______ but we will figure it. We will make it through this together.” John finally said.”First thing first though, I’ll make us a cuppa and then we will decide what to do.” You took your head off John’s shoulder and straightened to allow him to get off the couch. He bustled around the kitchen gathering the necessary items for tea. You rise from the couch and wander around the room listlessly, nothing of interest capturing your attention. You stop at the window and watch that people going about their business. A mother was pushing a pram containing her new baby. A father picked up his little girl; her face lit with joy as he placed her on his shoulders. A couple strolled hand in hand, stopping at the window of a small jewelry shop. The girl was pointing at one of the many bracelets that were displayed on plush red pillows. The boy, smiling, pulled her away from the window and into an embrace. You grimaced and went to turn from the window when a movement from the darken alleyway caught your eye. You strained your eyes, attempting to discern what might be lurking in the shadows. John cleared his throat and you turned to take the mug from him, the shadowy figure gone from your mind.

“Have you been to see Mrs. Hudson?” You asked and John shook his head.

“I went back a couple of nights ago after Sherlock... after it happened but I couldn’t… he wasn’t…, “John took a breath to steady himself, “He wasn’t there.” He finished, uncomfortable. You offer him a smile.

“I understand John. I wouldn’t want to stay there either but I think we should go and see Mrs. Hudson.” You said, blowing on the hot tea in an attempt to cool it faster. “She shouldn’t be left alone too long. Heaven knows what she would get up to.” John snorted at your statement and took a drink of his tea.

“I suppose you’re right. She’s probably trying to press tea and biscuits on some poor blighter she kidnapped off the street.” He said with a smile. You let out a chuckle as you imagine Mrs. Hudson pushing a large, disgruntled man into one of the small chairs that sat around her kitchen table all the while chatting about her day. You pictured his face holding a look of confusion, wondering at how he got there. John drained his cup and set it on your coffee table.

“Ready?” He asked, looking back at you. You raised your eyebrow at him and gestured to yourself.

“Do I look like I am ready? Hey Mrs. Hudson, I decided that I would visit you in my pyjamas. Hope you don’t mind.” You said cheekily. John smirked at you, his eyes bright with humour.

“That’s enough out of you. Way you go.” He pointed towards your bedroom.

“What about my tea?” you asked, the half full cup still in your hands. John gingerly took the cup out your hands and placed it beside his.

“Mrs. Hudson will have more.” He replied, practical as always. You head towards your room. It would be a cold day in Hell when Mrs. Hudson ran out of tea. She was easily one of the most caring people you have ever met. Her outwards appearance spoke of a dotty old woman but you found that she had a core of steel. Mrs. Hudson looked after Sherlock and John whether they acknowledged it or not. You had several memories of Mrs. Hudson bringing you a cup of tea when the case the boys had been working on ran long into the night. The smell of her home -made spaghetti sauce and cheese biscuits permeating the air of 221B made your mouth water at a thought.

********

It had been a long day. The weather was disagreeable with blustery winds and cold autumn rain plaguing the crime scene. You were chilled to the bone as the rain plastered your coat and clothes to your body. You mental kicked yourself for not bringing your umbrella or a change of clothes. The small tent that had been erected to protect the body provided a small relief from the weather. Unfortunately, you had the displeasure of working with Anderson. Lately he had been particularly annoying, asking questions about your relationship with the ‘Freak’. You suspected that he was looking for something, anything to discredit you and your work. You had become almost a celebrity in your department especially after your work with the world’s only consulting detective on the Reichenbach case.

“So are you dating him?” He asked in his typically drawl. He picked up the victim’s hand and felt for a pulse. It wasn’t necessary since the victim extremities were tinged with blue and there was no warmth coming from the body. You examined the face, noting the long cuts that swept from under the jaw of the left side of the woman’s face to her right temple. Her green eyes were dull and glassy-looking as she stared straight ahead. The eyes always unnerved you. You couldn’t help but wonder what her last thoughts were. Hopefully they were of her family and loved ones. You moved to her finger nails, searching for any signs of a struggle.

“No, we’re not dating.” You replied, not looking at him.

“Are you sleeping with him? Friends with benefits?” He bent his head to study the odd angle of the woman’s neck.

“You would know more about friends with benefits than I would.” You said, motioning that you were ready to roll her over. Anderson moved to her feet and you pushed from the shoulder, wincing when the neck lolled over to face the other way. You searched her pockets, finding a soggy piece of paper with a phone number on it, some lipstick, and a mobile. Her other pocket yielded an old coin, faded and worn with age. Other than that there was no identification.

“What do you get from him? There must be some sick reason you hang around with him.” He said, watching you with predatory look in his eyes.

“I doubt you would understand even if she explained it to you in small words.” A cold voice drifted down from above you. You let out a sigh of relief; Anderson wouldn’t bother you anymore now that Sherlock was here. You finish up your work and straighten to find Sherlock’s expectant gaze on you.

“Get out Anderson.” Sherlock commanded without looking at him.

“It’s raining.” Anderson stated flatly his eyes filled with disbelief that Sherlock would ask him to stand in the rain.

“Thank you for the weather report. Perhaps you should ponder a career change considering that you are completely useless in this one. ” Sherlock answered, studying the woman the ground. Anderson looked at you and you offered him a wide grin, motioning towards the tent entrance. He turned on his heel and left, resentment radiating off of him.

“Broken neck was the cause of death though she didn’t go down without a fight. There are traces of skin under her fingernails as well as a scrap of white fabric in her hand. Her handbag is missing but her mobile is in her pocket along with a number.” You paused, shivering slightly as a gust of wind came through the open tent door. “There was an old coin in her pocket. It looks ancient like the coins you see in a museum. Possibly Roman make.” As you spoke, Sherlock crouch down to examine the body. He pulled out his peculiar magnifying glass and studied something on the woman's face. He reached into the victim’s pocket and pulled out the coin. A smile lit his long face and he closed his hand around the coin. Without a word, Sherlock stood and walked out of the tent. You had long since learned not to ask questions when he was like this; he wouldn't answer you being to preoccupied with the puzzle before him.

“Why do I get a feeling that Christmas came early?” You muttered to yourself as you hurried after him. You reached Sherlock as he hailed a cab, the rain plastering his curls to his face.

“You look like a boy that was left unattended in a candy shop.” You commented as you brush your bangs from your face. Sherlock took you by the shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

“Don’t you see_______? He’s back!” He said excitedly before opening the cab door and climbing in. Sighing, you turned to leave but his hand caught your wrist and pulled you into the taxi. You stumbled, falling into the car and across Sherlock’s lap.

“Bloody hell Sherlock! I have work to finish.” You pushed yourself up and moved to get out of the cab.

“Mrs. Hudson is making spaghetti and cheese biscuits this evening. I told her that you were coming.” Sherlock offered as an explanation. You stared at the open door, clenching and releasing your jaw as you debated if you should go back and endure cold weather with the miserable company of Anderson versus the delicious food Mrs. Hudson made and the preferred company of your friends.

“What’s it going to be missus? I got other fares to pick up.” The cabbie spoke brusquely, his gruff voice cutting through your internal struggle. You shut the door and settled back on the seat. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see the smirk on Sherlock’s face.

“You could have asked.” You said, sulking. Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he replayed the past moments in his head.

“There was no need to ask. It wasn’t a question. You always come over when Mrs. Hudson cooks and frankly, you are a creature of habit ergo you would be present for supper. It hardly takes a brilliant mind to figure that out.” He replied a condescending tone in his voice.

“People still like to be asked Sherlock.” You sighed as you looked out the window. Water ran down your face and back from your hair and the warmth from the car’s heater was having a hard time penetrating the cold shell of your clothes. You felt Sherlock shift and suddenly his coat was draped on your lap. You pulled it up to your shoulders, absorbing the heat coming off of it.

“Thanks.” You murmured and Sherlock nodded. You went back to staring out the window. Sherlock opened his mouth before closing it again. He shifted again and cleared his throat. You met his blue-green eyes and saw a look of shyness in them.

“Would you like to come to dinner?” Sherlock asked. “Mrs. Hudson is making cheese biscuits.” You tilt your head in mock contemplation, a small smile on your lips.

“Okay but only because I love Mrs. Hudson’s cheese biscuits.” You replied jokingly. Sherlock let out a breath and leaned back into the seat. “Sherlock?” you said timidly. He hummed to show that he was listening. “Thank you for asking.” He glanced quickly at you before returning his gaze to the window.

The cab pulled up to curb and you both climbed out, Sherlock pausing for once to pay the fare. You hold Sherlock’s coat above your head and make a mad dash to the door. Throwing open the door, you stepped into the hallway and was met with the smell of tomatoes and freshly baked biscuits. You were glad that you had decided to come. Nothing had ever come close to tasting as wonderful as Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. You followed you nose up the stairs and into the boys’ flat. You hang up Sherlock’s coat as well as your own, leaving them to drip dry on the floor.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated from the kitchen, “Is that you dear?”

“Yes my dear Mrs. Hudson and I have brought a guest.” His voice rumbled from the stairwell behind you.

“A guest? Oh Sherlock, I am not dressed to receive guests. I was just expecting you and John.” You could hear her continuing to fret as she moved about the kitchen. You let out a little giggle and Sherlock put his finger to his lips, motioning you to be quiet.

“Well darling.” Sherlock said in a loud, apologetic voice. “I apologize for luring you here with the promise of a home-made meal. My dear land lady is not dressed for receiving guests.” He made his footsteps loud, heading towards the door. Mrs. Hudson rushed from the kitchen

"Sherlock! You finally brought someone home and I won’t have you forcing them to leave. I’ll just nip down and …” She trailed off when her eyes landed on you. You were unable to hold back your laughter and it rang forth as clear as a bell. Sherlock grinned as Mrs. Hudson hit him lightly on the arm.

“Oh you!” Mrs. Hudson took in your appearance and gave a start. “My goodness dear, you look like you went for a swim in the Channel.”

"I feel like it.” You replied, your teeth chattering slightly. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. It will warm you up in a jiffy.” She said, bustling back to the kitchen. Sherlock went to his room to change into some drier clothes. The front door slammed, announcing John's arrival. He stomped up the stairs, muttering under his breath and deposited himself in his chair. Sherlock returned to living room and arched his eyebrow at you, tilting his head towards his disgruntled friend. You rolled your eyes and drew your finger across your throat. You both knew John had another spat his newest girlfriend and judging by his demeanour they had just broken up. Sherlock handed you one of his shirts and a pair of trousers before moving towards his desk.

“Lover’s quarrel John?” Sherlock inquired as he perused the files on his desk.

“She bloody broke up with me.” John growled. “Said she didn’t like my attire. Made her feel like she was dating an old man.”

“I could have told you that and saved you the effort.” Sherlock said, flipping through the newest case file, pausing to study a picture.

“Don’t worry John. Mrs Hudson made cheese biscuits.” You said, patting him on the shoulder before turning to change. You heard John scoff as you left the room.

*********

You quickly change into a loose fitting shirt and a pair of jeans and pad back into the living room. John waited by the door. You put on your shoes, grabbed your keys and opened the door.

“I sincerely hope that Mrs. Hudson is making biscuits.” You said with a hopeful tone. John laughed and pulled the door shut behind him.


	6. Mrs. Hudson

You and John stroll down the street, linked arm in arm, relying on each other’s strength to propel you towards Baker Street and its recently vacated flat. As you rounded the corner, you paused for a moment, praying that a cab would pull up to the curb and the tall, lean figure of Sherlock would step out of it. John took your pause as hesitation and he gave your arm a squeeze. You looked at him and though he had a reassuring smile on his face, you could the effort he was using to keep it there. You start walking again, dreading each footstep that brought you closer to 221B Baker Street.

“Are you ready?” You asked nodding toward the nearing door. John shook his head once, his face stony, and drew a deep breath. He nods and you reached for the knocker and your hand trembled as you came in contact with the cold metal. The sound of the metal against the back plate echoed in your ears with a dull clang. Neither of you felt that it was appropriate to just walk into the flat even though John’s name was on the lease and you had spent more time curled up in an armchair here rather than at home. It felt like an eternity standing outside that door, waiting for the building’s only occupant to open it.

“Perhaps she isn’t in.” John spoke up, his voice sounding almost hopeful at the thought.

“We came to see Mrs. Hudson and we are going to do just that.” You said firmly reaching for the door knob. The door swung open before you could reach it though, revealing the red-eyed lland lady. She looked thoroughly dishevelled, her dress wrinkled and her usually neat curls out of place. She blinked at the pair of you before stepping forward and wrapping you in a hug. Mrs. Hudson pulled back and studied you for a moment. Her eyes traveled to John who stood slightly behind you. Her mouth turned down into a grimace and she let out a loud tut.

“My poor dears. Come in for tea?” She asked though it was not a question. There was no refusing Mrs. Hudson when she wanted to make you some tea. “I have some fresh biscuits as well.”

She moved out of the doorway to let you in. Stepping into the narrow hallway, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing up the stairs. The door that often sat open was shut, throwing deep shadows across the landing. A pang of sadness gripped your heart and you felt the tears begin to form in your eyes. From behind you, John cleared his throat and you glance backwards to find his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes staring straight ahead. You imagined that this was what John had looked like when he surveyed the battlefield in Afghanistan.  Mrs. Hudson led the way into her small flat and motioned for you to sit one of the chairs at the kitchen table. John lowered himself into the one opposite of you with a quiet groan. Mrs Hudson moved to the sink and began filling the kettle with water.

“How have you dears been holding up? “ She inquired as she set the kettle to boil.

“We’ve been better.” John answered for the both of you, offering her a small smile. He shrugged and looked about the apartment. “How have you been?”

“Oh. It been quiet. No stomping up and down the stairs in the early hours of the morning,” She said, reaching for the tin of biscuits on the shelf by the fridge, “No violin during the night, no shouting, no … Drat that man!” Mrs. Hudson slammed the tin on the table. You give the hand nearest to you a squeeze. Mrs. Hudson gave you a watery smile and turn to attend to the whistling kettle.

“Has Mycroft been to visit?” John asked in attempt to recover the conversation.

“No dear. He hasn’t been this way but he must be dreadfully busy planning Sherlock’s funeral.” She returned to the table with a tray containing the tea, sugar, milk and cups. “Poor man. Burying a loved one is never easy.” You and John shared a look across the table, knowing full well that the funeral arrangements had been delegated to an underling.

“The funeral is on Saturday at West Haven at four.” You informed her, taking a biscuit from the tin. She nodded and you fell silent, thinking about the upcoming funeral. How could you say good –bye to a man who became one of your best friends. He had been irritating, short tempered, haughty, arrogant and unmanageable some days but even with all of those negative personality traits, he had a tender side. He had been downright awkward when he tried to cheer you up with words but he quickly found leaving you a cup of your favourite tea, a tin of biscuits or an unexpected embrace improved your mood considerably and saved him from a confusing conversation. He offered you many nights of comfort when the memories of your warped childhood made their way into your dreams.

********

_You were filled with terror as you heard the stairs creak, shifting under the weight of the man that undoubtedly walked up them. Pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, you burrowed further into the closet, praying that they could offer you sanctuary from the man climbing the stairs. The door swung open, banging against the wall with force. You screw you eyes shut and cover you mouth with your hand to muffle your rapid breathing. The footsteps cross the floor to your bed and you could hear the blankets being thrown back. A deep chuckle came from the man before he moved towards the closet._

_“Oh you think you are a clever girl? Hiding from me?” He said, his voice soft and menacing. The door of the closet opened slowly revealing a middle-aged man standing in the moonlight. He had a stocky build but was well muscled. He was what most women would consider attractive, light hair and sparkling green eyes. You couldn't see his face but you could picture the coldness of those blue eyes, the twist of a cruel smile on his lips. A whimper escaped and he laughed; a sound that filled your heart with fear._

_“Ah there you are. Come out and play.” He said coaxingly. You shook your head, unable to form the words. “Come out. You’ll only make it harder for yourself if you don't.” His voice took on a sharp tone as his anger rose. Finally you found your voice._

_“No.” You whispered._

_“What was that?” He hissed._

_“No Uncle.” You said a little louder, jutting your chin out defiantly. Like lightning, a hand shot towards you and found a hand hold in your hair. You yelped as he twisted your hair painfully and pulled you from the closet. You did the only thing you could, you screamed._

A pair of hands shook you gently and you swatted at them.

“No! I don’t want to. Please stop!” You cried.

“Open your eyes _________.” A baritone voice said sounding slightly afraid. You shook your head and whimper.

“Open your eyes ______.” The voice said again more commanding this time. Your eyes flew open to meet the concerned gaze of Sherlock’s blue -green ones. “It was only a dream.”

You had fallen asleep on the couch while reading one of your favourite books. At some point, someone had moved the book to the table beside you and replaced it with a blanket. Pushing yourself into a sitting position, you place your head in your hands, trying to get your heart rate and breathing under control. You could feel Sherlock’s eyes studying you.

“Not a dream. A memory.” He said softly though he was unable to keep a hint of curiosity out of his voice. You nod, unable to meet his eyes. The couch shifted as he dropped into the seat beside you. With a deep, steadying breath you found the courage to look at him. There was no disdain in his eyes only understanding and interest.

“Sherlock...” You began to explain, trying to get your thoughts in order but over the years you had put too many barriers up to allow you to talk about it easily.

To your surprise, Sherlock didn’t push for an explanation and kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he drew a deep breath, let it out slowly and pulled you close to him. Gently, you placed your head on his chest and felt him stiffen in response. Gradually his muscles relaxed and he began stroke your hair; a learned behaviour from his own mother. Different smells came to your nose as you breathed in his scent; the nicotine of his last cigarette on his breath, his cologne and the faint scent of fabric softener on his shirt. The smells were comforting and did much to calm your troubled mind.

“There no way to control what we dream of or how the dreams will affect us. Memories make a dream more realistic to the senses and therefore harder to escape and we lose the ability to discern what is reality and what is not.” He said quietly, almost to himself. The way he spoke seemed to come from experience rather than a recitation of something he read.

You didn’t say anything when he fell silent not wanting to break the fragile intimacy of the moment. Your eyes begin to droop as he continues to stroke your hair, the steady beat of his heart in your ear.

*********

“Thank heavens you’re here. I have been trying to sort through Sherlock’s things and clean up the place.” Mrs Hudson’s voice drifted into your memories. You gave yourself a small shake trying to catch up on the conversation.

John shot you a strange look before replying, “That’s not really why we came, Mrs. Hudson. We..”

“But I don’t know which things to give away and which things to keep.” Mrs. Hudson interrupted him, the look on her face almost frantic. She looked to you for help. Letting out a gusty sigh, you push away from the table.

“We’ll have a look Mrs. Hudson. I don’t think I know any more about Sherlock’s things than you do.” You turn to face your companion, “John?” John shook his head, his mouth settling in a firm line and shrugged his shoulders. You move into the hallway and up the stairs following the flower patterned dress of Mrs. Hudson. Each creak of the stairs brought a flood of memories with it. You grip the hand rail with sweaty palms, relying on its support to keep you upright. Mrs. Hudson paused at the landing to open the door before continuing into the flat’s living room. You wanted to stop, mentally screaming at your legs to cease their climb but like a magnet to a lodestone, you couldn’t resist the pull of 221B.

Your legs propelled you through the door and into the centre of the room. Nothing had changed since the night Scotland Yard had tried to arrest their consulting detective. Sherlock’s desk was still piled high with papers, pictures, files and an assortment of oddities. John’s desk held some nearly attached books, a half filled cup and his laptop. Boxes; some packed and taped shut and others still empty, littered the ground and the majority of available sitting spaces. John collected some of the empty boxes and went upstairs presumably to pack his things. Mrs Hudson had gone to the kitchen to continue with the packing she had begun there leaving you with the living room. You drifted towards the mantle, Sherlock’s skull staring dismally back at you. You picked it up and raised it up to your eye level.

“Well old man, sorry to break the news but your friend will not be coming home. He’s gone and selfishly off himself, leaving us to pick up the pieces.” You said, conversationally to the skull. “I suppose you want to tell me that there is a reason for everything that bloody man does and that good will eventually come out from it.”

“Did you say something dear?” Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen.

“No.” You called back guilty before placing the skull back in its place on the mantle. You turn to Sherlock’s armchair and saw his violin and bow sitting haphazardly in a cardboard box. You gasp and quickly pulled them out, cradling the instrument like a baby.

“Mrs. Hudson? Why is Sherlock’s violin in a box?” You asked loudly, your voice squeaking at the end.

“I was thought of donating it to that music school in Windsor.” She answered.

 _Nope. Not happening_.

You rummaged through the boxes, pulling out a blue scarf from one, a book from another. The more boxes you went through, the more you knew you couldn’t give these things away. These were Sherlock’s things; his deer stalker, his deep purple shirt, his violin, his microscope. You continued searching through the boxes, an idea growing in your head. Finally you found his folder of music buried at the bottom of a pile of boxes stacked by the door. You open the cover slowly, revealing the Sherlock’s precise writing. The first page was entitled “_______’s Rain.” Under the title were the words, ‘Violin and Piano Duet.” Your eyes move lower and noticed that there were empty lines underneath the violin part. Tears splashed down on the page as the notes played quietly in your mind. Gently you closed the folder and came to a decision.

“Mrs. Hudson!” You call urgently. She hurried into the room at your summons, her eyes anxious.

“What’s the matter dear?” She asked.

“Stop packing!” You order, “Please.” You added to soften your words. “I need you to stop packing. I will pay rent for the flat. At least for a year.”

“Surely, you’re not serious?” She started. You nodded as the tears spilled over the edges of your eyes.

“This place, this flat and its occupants unexpectedly became my home. You, Mrs. Hudson, act as my cheerleader and caretaker, John, my doctor and my sanity, and Sherlock, my headache and my comfort. This flat tires it all together, making it my shelter. " The floor creaked behind you and you turned to see John standing there looking slightly embarrassed. You turn back to Mrs. Hudson.

“One part of my home is gone and I can’t lose another one.” You hung your head. “I just can’t.” John stepped up beside you and cleared his throat.

“I’ll pay too.” He said earning a grateful smile from you. Mrs Hudson looked from your tear-streaked face to John’s tired one. She nodded uncertainly once and thenthen again, more sure.

“Of course dears.” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “We’ll leave everything the way it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I really appreciate your thoughts and comment so leave a comment and tell me what you think.


	7. C'mere Redbeard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Enjoy.
> 
> Warning: Language

The afternoon was spent unpacking all of Sherlock’s possessions and returning them to their rightful place. You thought about organizing the mess of paper on Sherlock’s desk but quickly changed your mind when you realized that you had no idea which paper went into which case folder. John left to bring down the boxes from his room to the landing while Mrs. Hudson prepared one last meal in 221B’s kitchen. You wandered around the living room before gathering the courage to walk down the hall towards Sherlock’s room. The door sat slightly ajar, dim shadows flitting around the edge of it. With a deep breath, you pushed the door open fully and entered the room. The bed was unmade and clothes lay about the floor in crumpled heaps. The wardrobe door was open, revealing a row of neatly hung jackets and clean shirts. You fingered the edge of the jacket, feeling the fabric’s sturdiness and a mental picture of Sherlock wearing it flashed before your eyes. Turning towards the bed and its emptiness, you closed your eyes, remembering nights spent curled up there as well as the warmth and security it had offered. Memories flooded your head of nights spent in this room; the heat of Sherlock’s body warming yours. The first time had been accidental but by some unspoken agreement between the two of you, the arrangement never changed. The first night you had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed had been the night when the consulting criminal had physically stepped on to the playing field.

******

You meandered down the street, pausing to turn your coat collar up against the wind. Winter was making its annual debut with cold winds and dropping temperatures. You mobile buzzed and you saw a text from Sherlock that simply read,

‘Bored’.

_John must have gone out._ You thought as you readjusted the book bag on your shoulder.

‘If you are asking me to come over, you will have to be a little more obvious.’ You responded with a smile. You pictured Sherlock, sliding a little lower in his chair and muttering to himself.

‘BOOORREDD! Come if convenient. Bring fish and chips. -S’

‘Was that so hard? On my way.’

You had been on your way home from the library, a place that offered you solace from the drudgery of your work, when you heard footsteps behind you. This didn’t concern you, the neighbourhood you walked through was considered a safe place, it wasn’t dark and you didn’t have anything on you worth stealing. You mentally began to plan your route to stop at Sherlock’s favourite fish and chip place on the way when the footsteps begin to pick up their pace. You quicken your pace, your grip tightening around the strap of your bag; ready to swing. A shadow caught your eye and a man stepped out from an alleyway. He had a smile on his face that made your stomach turn. You stop, your thoughts racing, trying to work out the scenarios. With a sinking feeling, you realize none of them were good. Suddenly a cloth was placed over your nose and mouth and held in place by an iron grip. Swallowing the urge to scream, you clawed at the hand as your vision was beginning to blur. Your consciousness was fading and you were vaguely aware that a van was pulling up the curb. The smiling man lifted your feet from the ground, fastening his thick fingers around your ankles. You bucked and heaved, trying to loosen their grip, trying to shake the cloth covering your face. The world narrowed to focus on the man in front of you. With the remainder of your strength, you threw your weight up and dropped it down quickly, pulling the two men towards each other. Your feet fell to the ground as the smiling assailant lost his hold on your ankles. The cloth slipped as his partner lost his grip when your weight shifted. You drew a deep breath and threw your head back with as much force as you could muster. You heard a crunch as your assailant’s nose gave way. He stumbled back, his hands covering his bleeding, broken nose. You fell forward, landing on your hands and knees. Gulping in the cold air, you head began to clear as the oxygen made its way to your brain.

“You cunt. You bloody broke my nose.” He growled.

“Serves you ri-” You started to say before pain shot through your head and the world went black. You woke up as the smell of chlorine assaulted you nose. You wrinkled it in distaste and tried to sit up. Dizziness overwhelmed your senses and you slowly laid back down.

_Let’s try this a little more slowly_. You thought before opening one eye and then the other. The room blurred for a moment before settling and revealing what it contained. A row of lockers sat in the distance along with a pair of benches. A pair of polished shoes appeared in your line of vision.

“How are we feeling? That is quite the bump on the noggin.” A sing song voice floated down to your ears. You turned your head carefully to see a man standing over you with a look of mild concern on his face, his brown eyes kind. His suit was of an expensive cut and clearly had been tailored to fit him. His hair was slicked back and had been neatly combed into place. “Jim Moriarty, hi.” He gave a small wave, a large smile on his face.

_Moriarty? Don’t I know that name? Something to do with Sherlock, perhaps_. You thought furiously, trying to recall why this name was so familiar. A small frown appeared on your lips as you went through the past couple days. Jim squatted down and twisted his head to better see your face.

“Oh dear! Don’t remember me? I always thought I was one worth remembering.” He stuck his bottom lip out in a pout. His tone was quiet and dangerous. He leaned forward and whispered into your ear, his breath moving a wisp of hair out of your face. “Boom!”

Your frown deepened, still trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Moriarty was growing impatient. He took one finger and touched it gently to the area of where an object had impacted your head. You winched at the touch causing the corners of Moriarty’s mouth to twitch. Suddenly pain exploded in your head as Moriarty pushed down hard.

“Think! Who am I?” He shouted, his voice echoing in the empty room.

“Jim Moriarty!” You gasp around the pain; black spots began to swim before your eyes. The pressure receded as Jim lifted his finger.

“You only know that because I told you.” He said sullenly, the pout back on his face. “Think!” Once again, your head was filled with agony as he applied pressure once again.

“You… strapped bombs… to people. S-S-Sherlock had to…had to… solved puzzles to…save…them.” You finally stuttered out an answer. Jim withdrew his hand and you saw a smear of blood on his finger. He wiped the blood on the shoulder of your jumper.

“Well done. I must admit, I am impressed.” His voice changed to a slow Irish drawl. “Able to think under physical duress. Let’s see how well you do under emotional stress.” He straightened and snapped his fingers, summoning a man to him.

“Get her up. We’re late for a party.” Jim told him before walking out of the room. The man hauled you to your feet and forced you in front of him. Your head throbbed with each beat of your racing heart and your vision blurred at the sudden movement. The smell of chlorine grew stronger the further you walked. Stumbling, you place your hand on the wall, trying to retain what little balance you had left. A rough hand grabbed your shoulder, forcing you to abruptly stop in front of a windowless door.

“Show time.” Jim’s voice came from a darkened doorway to the left of you and you strained your eyes to see him. A voice, muffled by the door reached your ears.

“Hel-“ You started but a hand was clamped over your face.

“Now, now, now, don’t ruin all the fun.” Jim chided, moving so he was directly in front of you. “You’ll get your turn soon but right now John is the star of the show.” He turned his back to you and began to speak into his mobile. Another voice joined the first. If John was out there, you could only assume that the first voice had to belong to Sherlock.

Anger surged through your body along with adrenaline. You bit hard onto the fleshy part of the fingers in front of your mouth. The man pulled his hand back with a grunt allowing you to lunge at Moriarty’s figure. Your captor quickly recovered and restrained you with ease. Jim turned back to you and with a wink said, “My turn. Wish me luck.”

You growled in return. He smirked for a moment before plastering a look of nervousness on his face and stepping through the door. There murmuring of voices, changing pitch as the members of the conversation each took their turn. Shouting erupted and you desperately wanted to know what was happening. The voices dropped again before falling silent. Jim’s voice got louder as he approached the door and opened it.

“No you won’t.” He sang out and shut the door behind him. There was a thud on the other side of the door and you feverishly hoped it wasn’t a body. Jim stopped in front of you, the look of excitement on his face and began to rock on his heels. “That was terribly fun. I always love a good game.” He paused and gave you a look that made your stomach turn. “Your turn m’dear.” Jim took your arm in a tight grip and pulled you towards the door.

“Sorry boys. I’m **so** changeable.” Jim said as he entered the room with you in tow. You watched as Sherlock face change from relief to shock. John’s face grew angry, his lips thinning to mere lines and his eyebrows drawing together at the sight of the blood on your face. A several red dots appear on the front of your shirt, dancing around your chest. “It is a weakness but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness.”

Jim released your arm and began to walk around you. “She’s delectable, Sherlock. Perhaps I shall keep her for myself. A nice little pet to entertain me on the slow days.” Jim stopped beside you and placed a hand on the small of your back. Slowly, it followed your spine up to your neck. You froze, your eyes wide and your breath rapid. The hand slid back down, pausing at the bottom before continuing its way back up. Jim continued to talk to Sherlock, his hand never ceasing its movement.

_Pain. Pain is coming_. You mind screamed at you. Terror filled you as remembered whispers filled your ears.

_I need to hide. I need to get away_. You withdrew yourself from the situation, forming a tight ball around yourself and hiding in the corner of your mind. Feelings of pain, anger, shame and hate could not reach you here. You detached from your body and watched the play unfold through the eyes of a viewer rather than a participant. Sherlock’s face drained, leaving him paler than usual. Jim, who had been revelling in the anger he was causing, noticed the change in Sherlock’s face. He stepped in front of you and studied your face. John glanced at Sherlock, who mouthed back at him not to move.

“The lights are on but no one’s home.” He sang while he waved a hand in front of your eyes. He turned back to Sherlock. “Someone has daddy issues.” Jim said out of the corner of his mouth and a smirk lit his face. When he didn’t get a reaction out of Sherlock, he changed tactics. “Sherly, you must share.” Jim’s mouth formed a pout, “You have all the fun pets and I have none.”

“I don’t share my things.” Sherlock replied slowly. “Especially ones that I find interesting.”

“Oh dear me. It appears that we are at an impasse, Sherly. I want her and you won’t give her up.” Jim shrugged his shoulders. “I guess she’ll have to die.” He raised his fingers in the air and about to snap them when his phone went off. Jim closed his eyes and lowered his hand.

“D’mind if I get that?” Jim asked politely. Sherlock said that he could and Jim pulled out his phone. He walked away, listening intently to the speaker. John made to move but Sherlock motioned for him to stay still. Jim turned, his face twisted in animosity, and yelled at the speaker. He casually walked back towards you. With a quick glance at your face, Jim shoved you in the direction of the pool. You stumbled and hit the water with a splash.

_You look about you as the walls of your fortress begin to form cracks. ‘No, this can’t be happening!’ You stare in disbelief as the cracks widen and feelings begin pour into your safe place. Pain, with gnarled hands, grabbed you by the ankle and dragged you towards the rapidly widen hole. You clawed at the ground, searching for a hand hold. Unable to find one, you were pulled back into your body and were overwhelmed as your senses assaulted you_.

‘ _Air!_ ’ Screamed your lungs, ‘ _Need air’_. You inhaled and then stopped as water blazed a trail down your windpipe and into your lungs.

‘ _Burning!_ ’ Your eyes cried as the chlorine entered them. You blink, trying to clear whatever was causing the sensation.

_'Oxygen!_ ’ Your brain said repeatedly. Black began to gather around the edges of your vision and you knew that you were going to die. Your vision faded entirely and your brain’s requests for oxygen grew quiet.

A movement made the water shuddered around you and a hand fastened onto your wrist. Strong hands pulled you onto the pool deck and laid you down carefully. Fingers pressed against your neck before disappearing. You could hear a buzz in your ear. Someone tilted your head back and pinched your nose. Your chest rose as they breathed into you. Another breath.

“Breathe ________.” The buzzing evolved in John’s voice as the water drained out of your ears. “Dammit, take a breath.”

Another breath. Your brain awoke sluggishly, checking the essential systems for problems. Another breath. You rolled your head over as you body convulsed, forcing the water out of your lungs. Someone rolled you onto your side as the water came rushing out of your mouth. Once your lungs were free of water, you took a deep breath, filling your lungs to capacity. Carefully you sat up and were greeted by the sight of a drenched Sherlock and relieved looking John.

“Thanks.” You said with a tired smile.

After a long cab ride back to 221B, you curled up in Sherlock’s bed. He had insisted that you slept there being of the opinion that it was far too late for you to go back your flat. John had given you a thorough head to toe exam before prescribing some drugs for the pain. You lay in bed in a drugged haze, watching the time slip by; events from the night replaying in your head. Sherlock sat beside you, quiet and distant. You assumed he was in his mind palace and didn’t want to be disturbed. Sometime later, Sherlock gave a jolt and you rolled over to look at him. He looked about the room, disoriented before resting his eyes on you. With a small smile, Sherlock laid down on the mattress beside your body. You could feel his heat radiate through the layers of blankets as you both lay there quietly. Eventually his breathing began to slow into the natural rhythm of sleep. Just as you were about to drift off to sleep, Sherlock hooked his arm around you and pulled you closer to him. “C’mere Redbeard. It’ll be all right.”

Too tired to question him about whom Redbeard was, you fall asleep.

********

“________?” John’s voice called from the hallway. You open your eyes and brush away the tears that had been making fresh paths down your cheeks.

“I’m in here John.” You replied, turning towards the door. John pushed the door open but didn’t enter the room. He took in your face and the fresh tears before holding his arms out to you. Quickly, you cross the room and fold yourself into his arms.

“Mrs. Hudson made cheese biscuits.” John said quietly.

“Then I guess we shouldn’tkeep the biscuits waiting.” You said, forcing a smile onto your face.

“That’s the spirit.’ John replied, motioning for you to go ahead of him. You started down the hall but when you didn’t hear John’s footsteps, you turned back. John stood, staring into the empty room. Rousing himself, John gave a quick nod and gently shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I love to hear what you think about each chapter. Please leave me a comment. :)


	8. Another Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can tell you this chapter was a nightmare to post since my internet was being finicky. Enjoy :)

After bidding Mrs. Hudson goodnight, you left the flat with Sherlock’s music portfolio tucked under your arm. The street was empty of both pedestrians and vehicles for once although you could hear the hum of a city bus a couple of blocks over. The only movement was a small tabby cat rummaging through the bins in an alley across the street. The night was growing cold as the darkness fell; you could smell the rain on the passing breeze.

John stared straight ahead, lost in his thoughts as you strolled down the quiet street. You respected John’s wish for silence and didn’t make the effort to start a conversation. Instead you gazed up at the hazy sky, searching for the stars that hid behind the lights from the city. Sweeping your gaze across the horizon, you finally found find the one star that never failed to pierce the veil of manmade light. It gave you a small comfort to know that star still remained at its post, watching over the world. Suddenly, the buildings on the street felt like they were closing in on you. The urge to escape the city and its oppressing memories began to mount.

“John, let’s get on a train.” You said, breaking the quiet.

“What?” John asked incredulously, “You want to get on a train in the middle of the bloody night?”

“It’s not the middle of the night and yes, I do.” You replied, trying to keep your breathing steady. A panic attack was not far away. You couldn’t see John’s face but you knew he just rolled his eyes at you. “I want to see the stars. John. ” You continued.

John pointed up at the sky and said impatiently, “There are stars right there. When you have seen one, you have seen them all. No need to board a train.”

“I want to see the sky full of them without the glow of the city. I need to know that the world is still the same world it was a couple days ago.”

With a sigh, John took your free hand and gave it a squeeze. “Not tonight. We’re both tired and we have some hard days coming up. It’s best we just go back to your flat and go to bed.” You swallowed the rising panic and nodded at the doctor’s sound advice. At the crestfallen look on your face, John added, “I’m not saying no, _______. I am saying not tonight okay?”

You were about to respond when John’s phone beeped. You both stopped and you let go of John’s hand as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He peered at the glowing screen and you could see the corners of his mouth turn down. With an angry thrust, the phone disappeared back into the depth of John’s green jacket.

_This is not good._

“What did Mycroft want?” You inquired quietly as you felt John’s frustration. You could see the muscle in John’s jaw work as he attempted to get a handle on his temper.

“That bloody man wants me to write a eulogy for Sherlock’s funeral.” He hissed. “That… It’s… he can…” John started.

“He can go to hell.” You finished for him.

“EXACTLY!” John threw his hands into the air. “Mycroft Holmes can bloody well go to hell and join his ridiculous brother there for all I care.” He walked a short distance away before stopping. You could see his shoulders rise and fall as John drew several deep breaths; his hands balled up into fists. You ghosted behind him, giving him a moment to work through his emotions. A couple minutes later, you began to shiver and movement was needed.

“John?” You placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged his shoulders, brushing your hand aside. “John, you don’t have to do this alone. I will help you.” You said reassuringly, “Let me help you.”

He hung his head and sighed, “Let’s go.”

You took his arm and resumed the quiet walk back to your flat. Opening the door, you threw your keys on the bench nearby and took off you jacket. Carefully you placed Sherlock’s portfolio beside your own. As you stared at the pair of folders, your mind began to whirl, wondering if you could write some piano compositions to be companions to the violin pieces.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.” John said from behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. You turned to look at him. There were deep furrows were etched in his brow above tired yet angry eyes. His mouth was set in a firm line and a muscle twitched in his cheek. You pulled him into a hug and at first, he remained stiff and unyielding but after a moment you felt his body shudder as he let out a sob. You hugged him tighter. Tears formed in your eyes as the strongest man you knew broke down in your arms. You began to hum the lullaby that Sherlock had played for you, in an effort to calm John. After several minutes, John straightened and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“That was embarrassing.” He muttered as his face reddened.

“John, look at me.” You said. Slowly he brought his eyes up to yours. “It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to grieve. I know how much he meant to you and you need to let it out.”

“You’re one to talk.” He said, the corners of his mouth turning up.

“I’m a special case.” You replied, returning the smile. You took his face in your hands and placed kiss on his forehead. “Good night John.”

“Yeah. Good night _______.”

You walked down the short hallway to your bedroom. You stopped with your hand on the doorknob and turned back to find John slowly opening the music portfolio.

“Be strong John.” You whispered before entering the room and shutting the door behind you. Feeling exhausted, you crawled under the covers and feel asleep before your head hit the pillow.

 

***********

_You woke up in a small room and upon trying to move, you found you were tied to a chair with your hands bound tightly behind you. You could feel a sticky liquid running down your hands and knew it was blood; the rope was biting into your skin. You looked around the dimly lit room, trying to discover anything that could help you out of this predicament. You could make out a dark shape in the corner. Most likely a chair and no help to you. A single light bulb hung above you, swaying slightly in darkness. There was window behind you, the moonlight judging by a long shadow in front of you. You could hear a murmur of voices off to your left_

_“Hello?” You called out hesitantly. There was no response. Suddenly, lights assaulted your eyes with the sudden brightness and you squeeze them shut. Slowly, you open your eyes and look about the brightly lit room. The light that hung above you remained unlit. The object you had thought was a chair was a man, hunched over with his dark curls hanging in his face. Instinctively, you knew it was Sherlock. He wasn’t bound in any way that you could see._

_“Sherlock.” You whispered. The man didn’t move, his head resting in his hands. “Sherlock.” You said a little louder. He still didn’t move but you could see his breathing quicken._

_“Damn it Sherlock! Look at me!” You hissed angrily. He raised his face and you gasped at the sight. Nothing prepared you for the damage you saw. It wasn’t the split lip or the swollen eye or the blood that had dried on his face. It was the emptiness in his blue-green eyes; Sherlock’s essence had disappeared._

_A door opens and closes and you twist wildly, trying to see who entered the room._

_“So nice of you to join us.” A familiar Irish drawl reached your ears. You felt the anger begin to bubble under the surface. Moriarty._

_“What did you do to him?” You asked, watching the blank face of your friend. Moriarty giggled; a high pitched sound._

_“I always love finding people’s breaking points. It’s fascinating how much the human spirit can take before it disappears.” He said, motioning to Sherlock in the corner. You shook your head, angry tears spilled down your cheeks. Moriarty leaned in, wiped a tear off your cheek and watched it hang on his finger. You tore your face away from his hands, wishing that you could wrap you hands around his pale neck. You could feel his breath on your ear as he leaned even closer._

_“Let’s bring him back shall we?” He whispered in a sultry tone, sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers traced their ways slowly down your bicep._

_“Oh god.” You whispered. You could see Moriarty’s grin widened in your peripheral vision. “You’re despicable.”_

_“Let’s play a little game” He said excitedly. Without waiting for a response, he stepped out of view and returned with a silver tray filled with small, sharp looking knives. The blades weren’t very long but they could cause a lot of damage depending on the placement._

_“Sherly, why don’t you come join in the fun?” Moriarty coaxed. Sherlock didn’t move under Moriarty’s gaze. “NOW!” He shouted. Sherlock staggered to his feet and stumbled over to where you sat before stopping and gazing blankly over your shoulder. You pull against you restraints, trying to reach him. Jim picked up a knife and twirled it, watching the light catching on the metal. With growing horror, you realized what Jim’s game might be. Moriarty smiled; a wide, gleeful smile that made you shiver._

_“You dirty, lying, cheating, murderous wretch.” You yelled at him. The smile disappeared and the consulting criminal brought his face within inches of yours; his breath fanning across your face._

_“Tut, tut, tut. It’s not very nice to call people names.” He said in a sad tone, twisting his head slightly._

_“You deserve every single on of them.” You hissed._

_“I know.” He drawled, a cold smile lighting his face. “This is BORING!” He shouted; a close imitation to Sherlocks’s. “On with our game.” He stepped back and deftly twirled the knife in his hand. Without warning, he drove the knife deep into your thigh. You scream as the pain spread from your leg and through your entire body. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge your scream. Moriarty’s face became puzzled as he picked up another knife. The knife flashed and pain erupted from your other leg. You thought you saw a flicker behind Sherlock’s blank eyes as another screamed tore from your throat._

_“Third time’s a charm.” Moriarty murmured to himself as he selected the next knife from the tray. You wondered where he was going to place this knife but he didn’t eave you wondering for long. The knife pierced the skin in your bicep, leaving torn muscles in its wake. A third scream, shriller than the first two, echoed in the small room. You saw the change as Sherlock came back into his body. He blinked and you could see his mind whirling behind those blue-green eyes, assessing the situation. You let out an involuntarily gasp causing Moriarty to turn from the tray and study the consulting detective. Sherlock’s eyes went blank as he carefully rearranged his features into a look of indifference. Moriarty’s brow furrowed as he walked around Sherlock before returning to the silver tray. He muttered as he picked up the last knife and ran his finger along the blade. He moved behind you and you knew the game had changed. Moriarty brought his hand to rest on your shoulder and you flinched at the unwelcome touch. Cold steel pressed against your throat and traced its way from one ear to the other. You pray that Sherlock will remain still; your life was not worth his. Moriarty applied pressure and a thin, red line appeared on your neck. You whimpered and forced your head back from the knife._

_‘Don’t move Sherlock. Don’t move.’ You silently beg._

_“SERIOUSLY? What does a guy have to do to get a REACTION?” Moriarty yelled as he threw the knife in Sherlock’s direction. It embedded itself in the wall, the hilt quivering at the impact. He stormed from the room in a display of fury, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock release the breath he had been holding and move closer to examine your predicament. Your muscles quivered and sent waves of pain through your body. Blood pooled around the knives that were still lodged in your limbs. Black was beginning to gather at the edge of your vision and the world was beginning to spin. You heard the door reopen and knew that the consulting criminal had re-entered the room. Sherlock placed his hand on the back of your neck and pulled your face close to his._

_“Look at me ______.” He ordered, his voice oddly distant. You struggle to bring him into focus, his face distorted. Your brain registered a glint of metal in his hand, long and lethal. “I’m sorry.” He whispered before driving the knife into your chest. Your eyes widened in shock and as your heart gave its last shuddering beat, you whispered, “Why?”_

************

You woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. You felt the spot where Sherlock had pierced your chest, expecting to the find the hilt of a knife but your hand encountered empty air. Sherlock may not have physically stabbed you but his death had left an ache in your heart. You pushed off the covers and headed towards the living room, in the search of comfort. The murmur of the telly reached your ears and told you that John was awake. He gave you a questioning look and you nodded. John gave you a reassuring smile and patted the spot beside him on the sofa. Crossing the room quickly, you sat down beside him and John placed a blanket around you. You leaned into John’s warmth and together you were lulled into a state of oblivion by some mindless telly program.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As aways, leave me a comment about what you thought. I appreciate all the positive feedback I have been getting. Thanks for being fantastic readers :)
> 
> Cheers M'dears.


	9. A Heartfelt Eulogy

The morning brought another day of sunshine. Normally you would have been thrilled but the lack of sleep and pain in your heart dulled the sensation. You wondered, as you sat on the couch, if life was ever going to return to normal. John shifted violently in his sleep, his arms flying out to the side then swinging inward as if he was trying to catch something.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, jolting awake. Frantically, his eyes roamed the room, attempting to get his bearings.

“It’s okay John.” You said, as his blue eyes landed on you, “It was just a nightmare.” You reached over and patted his knee.

“No it’s not okay! What happened is never going to be okay.” John said loudly. “Sherlock jumped from a building because Jim Moriarty convinced the world that Sherlock was fraud. That he made up everything.” John took a deep breath and pushed on, “He told me that he looked me up online before he met me. That night I went home and typed my name into a search. Do you want to know what came up? Nothing before I met him. There was nothing on me until Sherlock made the newspapers.”

“Sherlock was a brilliant star and people will always look for a way to put out the light; to make it as dim and faint as the rest.” You said, taking John’s hand in your own. You traced the scars that ran across the back of it with your thumb.

“That night, when LeStrade came to arrest Sherlock, I had my doubts. Everything that was being said; it fit together so perfectly. The little girl’s reaction, how quickly Sherlock was able to find the children...”

“Moriarty was real.” You said a little more harshly than you intended, letting go of John’s hand. “If you think that Sherlock was a liar, a fraud, you are doing a disservice to his memory.”

“Sherlock was one of the most human, human beings I have ever met.” John said quietly studying the hand you had relinquished during your outburst. “He may have been an arrogant arsehole but he was  the most brilliant arsehole I have ever met.” He finished with a quiet chuckle.

“Indeed he was.” You murmured before getting off the couch. “Breakfast?”

Breakfast passed much in the same way as the day before, quickly and quietly. John had started on the eulogy, getting more and more frustrated as he started each new paper. He sat on the couch muttering, crumpled and discarded papers littering what used to be your coffee table.

You attempted to get lost in a book but John’s constant mumbles cut through your concentration and began to drive you mad. Unable to stand any more of his irritating sounds, you set the book down with an audible sigh and looked around your flat.

“How’s the eulogy coming?” You asked, attempting to keep your annoyance out of your voice. John scoffed and crumpled up another piece of paper, throwing it in the rapidly growing heap.  You pinched the bridge of your nose and bit back a groan. John never seemed to have this problem when he was writing about his adventures with Sherlock. Then again, he had always written them on his laptop. “Perhaps if you type it out on the computer, the words might come a little easier.”

_And the trees will thank you._

“My laptop is still at the flat. Don’t suppose that you have one here?” He asked sharply, reading over the lines he had just written.

“Nope. Mine’s at work, sitting under my desk.” You replied in the same tone.

“Then paper it is.” John shot back, giving you a pointed look. You closed your eyes and counted to ten slowly, trying to keep the anger at bay. With a several deep breaths, you opened your eyes to see John looking at you. You stared back, trying to figure out what was going on in his head.

 _Probably the same thing that is going on in here. Don’t freak out on your best friend. Don’t freak out on one of your only friends._ You thought.

“I’m..” John started.  You held up your hand, cutting him off.

“I’m going to go for walk. I think we need some space before I tape your mouth shut and you succeed in breaking my favourite pen.” You said as John loosened his grip on the pen. Standing up, you grabbed your jacket and keys. John let out a sigh and you heard another paper ball added to the pile.  Quietly, you took John’s keys off of the bench and opened the door.

_Just in case._

“Text me if you need me.” You called as the door closed behind you. Finally out of the building, you wander aimlessly down the street, thinking about the handful of times you had ever been mad at John. There was the time that he was being extremely thick-headed about girlfriend who was cheating on him and no matter how much evidence you gathered, he refused to accept it. Then there was the time that he had found out that Sherlock was drugging his tea and thought you were in on it. The night that you had played Cluedo for the first time and John had made an asinine comment about the guy you were seeing at the time.  Sherlock had sided with John that night and you left after telling both men what you thought of them and their stupid game. You came to a stop and realized that you were standing in front of the black door of 221B.

“Stupid feet. He’s not there.” You mutter and continue on to the end of the street. Your mind drifted through piano rifts as you walked. You caught sight of a brown feather as the wind caught the helpless object in its invisible fingers. The feather rolled and tumbled as the wind played with it, tossing it high into the air. The gust of wind disappeared and the feather floated lazily back to the ground, looking as though its path had never been changed by the wind. The feather had almost reached the ground when it was once more thrown in to the air. This time the wind blew the feather into the street before letting it drift the ground once more.  The feather came to rest in a puddle on the street.  Before long, vehicle came speeding around the corner and hit the puddle, spraying water in every direction. The feather still lay within the puddle, its perfect formation, mangled and twisted from a force that it couldn’t have stopped. You stooped down and picked up the feather, examined the damage. Feeling a terrible sadness, you pocketed it before continuing on your way.  As you walked, you found yourself comparing your life to that of the feather. Once you had been a functioning individual that fit within the norms of society; useful and filled with purpose. A twisted individual entered your life, twisting and warping you until you were set adrift on the wind. Like the feather, you were resilient and even though you were damaged, you continued down your path, a little slower, a little more careful. Another event, the death of your granddad, turning your world upside down and altered your course but eventually you found the determination to continue on. You came to London and met some amazing people. John, Sherlock, LeStrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. You had found a home and a life which you settled into. Then out of nowhere, tragedy struck with force that no one could have predicted. Sherlock’s death had shattered your world leaving you feeing mangled and broken, much like the feather in your pocket.

Once again you stopped only to realize that you were standing in front of 221B again. You glanced up to the second story flat and thought that you saw Sherlock’s silhouette in the window but you told yourself it was just a trick of the light. With a quiet sigh, you dug John’s keys from your pocket and unlocked the door. Mrs. Hudson was probably at the casino, judging by the emptiness of the building. You switch on the lights and gaze around the front, committing every detail to memory

Slowly, you mount the stairs, listening to each step creak and groan under your weight, memorizing the way the shadows danced on the wallpaper, breathing in the slightly musty yet welcoming smell of home. As you opened the door, a sense of calm filled you, just as it had every time before.  You glanced around the room, as the tears filled your eyes. The light was streaming through the window making dust motes dance in its beams.

 _‘Funny,’_ You thought, ‘ _Those curtains were closed last night. Mrs. Hudson must have opened them.’_

You continued over to Sherlock’s chair and gently ran your fingers along the back of it. It was strange how armchairs reflected their owners. John’s worn and aged by the passing of time but extremely comfortable until you moved the wrong way and an errant spring poked you in the back. Sherlock’s was rigid, with hard angles. It looked very uninviting but it wasn’t until you sat in it that looks were not all that they appeared. The chair was surprisingly pleasant is sit in and offered you shelter within its padded arms.

**********

Sherlock was pacing the entire length of the room. Reaching the couch, he would turn back and walk to the fireplace, turn and repeat. John looked over the edge of his newspaper as Sherlock trod on his foot. There was no apology not even a pause in the detective’s agitated pace. You glanced up as John snapped his newspaper, grumbling about his inconsiderate flatmate. Studying Sherlock, you could tell that this current case was troubling him; he was muttering more than usual and the pacing was moving faster than customary. According to John, Sherlock hadn’t slept a wink in the past 48 hours and it had been  a struggle to get the man to eat some toast. You looked back into the fire, watching the flames flicker as they devoured the logs. Sherlock entered your view once more and stood there for a moment.

“I’m going to trip you if you don’t stop soon Sherlock.” You growled, “You’re driving me nuts.” Sherlock paying no heed to your words, continued on his way after dismissing a possible theory.

“Try ACTUALLY living here.” John said from behind his newspaper.  Sherlock’s pace increased and the frustration began to show on his face.

“And 3…2…1” John muttered.  As if that was his cue, Sherlock ceased his pacing and uttered a loud groan.

“I know there is a connection but how? How?” He threw his arms into the air and moved over to his desk, rummaging through the stacks of papers and photos. “There must have been something I have over looked. John, where is the matchbook that we picked up from the Chinese restaurant?”

“Coat.” John answered, clearly annoyed, “Left pocket.”

You intercepted Sherlock before he reached the coat. He blinked as if just realizing that you were here.

“So nice of you to pop in but you’re in my way.” He stated bluntly. You stood your ground, waiting for the detective’s next outburst. “Blasted…!”

“Sherlock,” John said, warningly.

“_______ if you could kindly step to the right by a foot.” Sherlock struggled to reform his intended statement as you arched your eyebrow at him.

“No.” You replied.

“But I need to…” Sherlock began.

“No you don’t.” You cut him off, crossing your arms.

“John.” Sherlock whined.

“______.” John said, “Let the high functioning sociopath run himself into the ground then maybe I can get some sleep.” Sherlock smirked at you in triumph.

“Sherlock, you march yourself over that chair and sit down before you fall down.” You said sternly.

“John, she’s not moving. Why is she not moving? I asked her nicely.” Sherlock ignored your comment.

“I’m not getting into this.” John replied, sinking lower in his chair so you could no longer see him. You pointed to Sherlock’s chair and fixed him with a menacing look. Sherlock sighed and walked over to his chair like it was a death sentence. He dropped into the chair, his legs out in front of him and his hands gripping the edge of the arm rest. He stared grumpily at the front of John’s newspaper. You moved behind the chair and told the sulking detective to put his head back. After a moment of defiance, Sherlock placed his head on the back of the chair. Gently, as if not to spook him, you placed your heads on his head.

‘What are you doing?” Sherlock protested, bolting upright in his chair.

“Sherlock, your mind is not working properly because you haven’t slept. If you aren’t going to sleep, you need to at least relax and make your body think that it is going to sleep. When your body is sleep-deprived, there is an increase in stress hormones which can cause you to think erratically and illogically.” You said, straightforwardly. “So unless you are going to sit here on your own accord, I will strap you to this chair until I have determined you’ve had enough rest. This will help. I promise.” Sherlock pondered your words for a moment before leaning back into the chair once more.

“Proceed.” Sherlock muttered. You placed your hands on his head and gave him a light massage.  His eyelids began to droop ever so slightly. You continued your administrations, careful not to give any attention to the detective. His eyelids slid further down and you could see his muscles begin to relax. You changed the motion and used your fingers to comb Sherlock’s dark, unruly curls. Finally his eyes were closed but to ensure that he wasn’t playing a trick on you, you continued to run your hands through his hair. Quietly, you began to hum the lullaby he had played for you so long ago. You could feel John’s eyes on you, this sight strange and wondrous to behold.

A soft snore filled the silence of the room and still you continued. Finally your lullaby ended and you shot John a wide grin. John wordlessly handed you the blanket from the back of his chair. You covered Sherlock and took a step back to admire the scene in front of you.

“Doesn’t he look so peaceful when words are not coming from in his mouth in an insulting fashion?” You asked John.

“I don’t know what you did but it was magical.” John replied. “Well I’m off to bed. Lock up if you’re leaving. Goodnight   ________.” John said with a large yawn.

“Goodnight John.” You whispered after his retreating form. You gathered up your things and headed to the door. You stopped at Sherlock’s coat and dug out the matchbook he had so desperately wanted. Stepping lightly, you made you way back to the sleeping detective and placed the matchbook under his hand. The fire light flitted across his face, giving him a child-like appearance. You smiled and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. His lips quirked up into a small smile in response.

“Goodnight Sherlock, dream of exciting and challenging murders.” You said before turning and locking up for the night.

************

You stared at the black fabric of the chair before taking a step back and bumping into the music stand.

 _You’re not where I put you._ You thought and glanced around the room for any other discrepancies. _If the music stand was moved, where is the violin?_ You looked to fireplace mantle where you had put the case yesterday. The case had remained in the same spot but one of the latches was unfastened.  You tenderly closed the latch and looked about the room once more. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had been up here cleaning. The music stand wasn’t far from its spot in the near the window and she had often knocked it down when she opened the curtains. You unplugged John’s laptop and tucked it under your arm.  With a glance down the hallway to the closed door of Sherlock’s room, you left the flat, tears sliding quietly down your face.

**********

Sherlock had been gathering some of things he was going to need for his field work when he had heard someone climbing the stairs. Judging by the creak in the steps, he knew it was you although you were walking slower than normal. He quickly calculated the amount of time he had and realized that it wasn’t going to be enough to set everything back in order. Sherlock hastily put his violin back in the case and closed the latches before retreating down the hallway to his bedroom. The curtains could be explained as could the music stand. Mrs. Hudson was always moving it much to his annoyance.  Sherlock peeked through the crack in the door and studied you.

_Nightmares are back, bags under eyes_

_Wrinkled clothing- been wearing it for at least 24 hours._

_Has been crying within the past 2 hours._

_Has John’s keys- John is staying with her._

_Corners of mouth down-turned - John has been irritating._

_Muscles are tensing-realizing something is out of place_.

Sherlock stepped back from the door and quietly closed it. He examined the emotion that was caused by the pain in your face.

“Oh my, my, my...” Mycroft’s disappointed voice came into his head. He tutted softly. “She’s softened you.”

“What is this feeling?” Sherlock asked, desperately wanting it to go away.

“Let’s see. Are you feeling nostalgic? Sad?” Mycroft inquired as he studied his perfectly manicured nails, “Tender perhaps?”  His piercing blue eyes studied his younger brother.

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. “No. It can’t be.”

 “It’s sentiment, brother dear.” Mycroft shook his head sadly. “I always knew that girl was to be your downfall.” He walked out the room and Sherlock returned to the present. He exited the bedroom and watched your figure disappear down the street, the feeling of sentiment growing with every footstep you took.

**********

“John! I’m back!” You called as you opened the door. “I brought you a gift.”

John sat up on the couch with a groan. He blinked at you sleepily, trying to comprehend where you had been.

“About bloody time.” He muttered, rubbing his tired eyes. “You’ve been gone all afternoon.”

“I brought your laptop.” You said, moving across the living room and holding it out to him. He blinked again before taking it, slowly from you.  “How far did you get with the eulogy?”

“I think I have at least a rough draft done.” John answered, fighting back a yawn. “It’s there on the table if you want to read it.” He gestured to the mess of paper balls on the coffee table,

“You mean if I can find it.” You said, with a laugh. John chuckled as he took in the clutter in front of him. He reached in a pulled out a single sheet of paper.

“Sherlock was never much for sentiment, so it’s short and sweet.” John handed you the paper and you looked at the neat scrawl of the man beside you.

“Can I read it out loud?” You asked hesitantly. John gave you a terse nod before settling back on the couch to listen. You looked over the first line and tears welled up in your eyes. Blinking them away you began, “What do you think when you hear the name Sherlock Holmes?

When people hear that name, many things come to mind, a freak, a psychopath, a high functioning sociopath, a pick pocket, an irritating younger brother, a headache, a tenant, a bloody drama queen. I’m sure there are more names, worse names that he has been called, I can only call him friend. Sure, there were days that he drove me mad, the incessant pacing, the screeching 2am wake-up calls with the violin, the constant complaints of boredom, the insistence of storing body parts in the fridge next to the food, his social etiquette, but I wouldn’t trade any of those days for ones without him in them.

He amazed me with his brilliance, his ability to look at something and know everything about it as well as his ridiculous talent to piece together a puzzle when none of the clues seemed to make any sense to the rest of the world. Sherlock also amazed me with his ignorance. How can anyone not know that the Earth revolves around the sun and that tea doesn’t just happen?” You laughed, remembering the conversation Sherlock had had with Mrs. Hudson about the morning tea.

“Sherlock could have been anything in the world. A doctor, a surgeon, a philosopher, a political leader, even a model with those bloody cheekbones of his but he didn’t. He chose to be the world’s only consulting detective, solving cases and bringing closure to the people involved in them. You may argue that he did it for selfish reasons; to chase way the boredom, to keep the high he constantly craved, we could speculate all day but whether he realized it or not, Sherlock had the hidden ability to make people happy, to share a joke, to ease the tension in a difficult situation.

What do you think when you hear the name Sherlock Holmes? I think of the man who, in the time that I had known him, became a decent man. I think of a man who was the most human, human being I have ever had the pleasure of meeting but I also think of my friend, my best friend. The man who pull me out, kicking and screaming, from the silent Hell I was living in. The man who showed me that life was still worth living and that I was still useful. Sherlock Holmes brought purpose back into my life and for that I can never repay him.”

The words blurred as tears came back in full force. You set the paper back down on the table with shaking hands. You leaned back and put you head on his shoulder.

“Well said John. Well said.” You whispered.

 

 

 

“ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought. :)


	10. Talking About The Dreams

“I don’t want to go to sleep tonight John.” You murmured into the quiet apartment. The light outside was fading quickly into twilight, casting long shadows around the room. You stood up to turn on the lamp beside the couch, sending the impending darkness scurrying for the corners. Rather than returning to the couch, you dropped into your armchair and tucked your legs underneath you.

“There hasn’t just been one, has there?” John asked, his voice shifting into the no nonsense tone he used when talked to patients. He shifted his body so he could study your face in a better light. “Dreams, I mean. You had one the first night I stayed over and even though you were exhausted, you were up again last night. Have there been more?”

 You gave a curt nod as you picked at the stray thread on your trousers. They started the night that the missing children had been found. Everything about the case seemed suspicious and your doubts began to seep into your subconscious mind. Each night, the nightmares got a little darker and were starting to mix with your memories both old and new.  

You continued to pick at the thread, silently keeping track of how many times you had pulled it. This was hard. John was aware of the nightmares, how could he not? He spent days trying to figure out if you were having sexual relations with Sherlock or you were actually just sleeping. Finally convincing him of that, John began to pry about the reason why you spent your nights in Sherlock’s bed.

*********

You pulled a wooden container filled with what looked like tea packets from the cupboard. Carefully, you sniffed the container and the citrusy smell of Earl Grey tea tickled your nose.

“It’s just tea.” You said with a sigh of relief, setting the container down on the counter.

“What did you expect it to be?” Sherlock grumbled from the door way. He looked thoroughly dishevelled, his dark curls lying flat on one side, his pyjamas wrinkled and his house coat hanging open. Sherlock had spent the night in his chair, thinking about the newest case he was on. He padded to a stool and dropped himself on it with a groan. With a sweeping arm, he cleared the space in front on him, allowing the paper and silverware to clatter to the floor. You turned to look at what fell before turning back to the task at hand.

“I was checking to make sure it wasn’t John’s special brew.” You replied, setting the kettle to boil. Sherlock scoffed before dropping his head to the counter, his hands draped at his sides.

“I used that up last week,” He grumbled to the counter top.

“My what?” John asked as he pulled a beige jumper over his head. You glanced at the detective and finding that he wasn’t going to help, you looked back at John. John shot you a quick grin, “Lover’s quarrel?”

You opened you mouth to response but Sherlock rolled off the stool and back into a standing position. He gave John an irritated glance before striding from the room. Sherlock climbed on to his chair and squatted on his haunches, his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed. Watching Sherlock’s movements, you gave John a bright smile.

“Looks like a typical morning to me.” You busied yourself in pouring the water. “A perky blogger and a grumpy detective.” After setting a cup in front of John, you took another cup to the sullen detective and placed it beside his chair.  Returning to the kitchen, you slid on to a stool beside John.

“So if you really aren’t shagging him, what do you do all night?” John asked in a quiet voice.

“I sleep or try too.” You said, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile, knowing how John would react to this statement.

“Sherlock has other plans, does he?” John asked, a smirk on his face.

“Honestly John,” Sherlock’s voice came from behind you causing the pair of you to jump. “I don’t understand your fascination with the fact that someone shares a bed with me.” He threw open an aged cupboard door and began rummaging around, moving boxes and containers, clearly looking for something. John’s eyes bugled with disbelief as he turned to look at his flat mate.

“In the human world, Sherlock, when a man shares his bed with a woman, he’s shagging her. Typically those people don’t ‘just sleep’.” John put quotations around the last two words. Sherlock paused in his search to contemplate John’s words. “So pardon me if I forget that you’re not burdened with human impulses.”

“You’re forgiven.” Sherlock drawled as he resumed his search, not offering any other explanation. John balked at his flatmate’s audacity before turning to give you a piercing look. You looked down at the steaming liquid in your cup.

“Sugar is on the bottom shelf, right hand side, near the back.” You commented. The rummaging stopped and you could hear the sugar tin being dragged off the shelf. “Please don’t pry into this John. I assure you there is no funny business going on.”

John stared at you with astonishment, his face turning a deep shade of red. He quickly turned his face from yours, focusing on the poster on the wall.  You could see the muscles in his jaw working as he worked out how to phrase his next statement politely.  John drained the last of his tea before setting down his cup, his hands perfectly still. You closed your eyes, waiting for the storm to begin.

“I am going to ask you again.” He said, clipping his words. “If the two of you are not having sex, why is she sharing your bed, Sherlock?”

“You’ve been told John!” Sherlock closed the cupboard forcefully. “If you started observing rather than merely seeing, you would notice that neither of us have jaunt in neither our step nor the chipper voice that accompanies you when you have had successful shag. Which given your short temper and the increasing amount of tissues in the waste bin, you have not had any successful ventures as of late.”

John sniffed angrily before standing up and leaving the room. Just before he reached the door, John turned back and stalked towards Sherlock. “You’re the reason that Dawn left. She couldn’t stand the thought of…”

“Was she the one with the dog or the one with the nose?” Sherlock interrupted as his eyebrows drew together, trying to put a face to the name. You opened your mouth to answer but John silenced you with a glare. Sherlock tilted his head, thinking over John’s past relationships.

“It doesn’t bloody matter who she was Sherlock!” John barked, “You’re not telling me something about this.” He waved his hand between Sherlock and you. “And until then, I will not be speaking with you. Or you.”

“That rather childish of you John.” Sherlock commented and you snorted into your tea cup.

_That was rich Sherlock. King of childish._ You thought.

 John declined to comment, stepping around Sherlock to take a piece of toast off the plate. He returned to his stool as the kitchen descended into an uncomfortable silence. You glanced at Sherlock who had busied himself in spooning sugar into his tea before looking at John. You let out a quiet sigh as you wrapped your hands around your tea cup, trying to draw strength from its warmth. John ate his toast with concentration, never taking his blue eyes from the wall. The only sounds were the tinkling of metal on ceramic, John’s chewing and the ticking of the clock on the wall. You closed your eyes, summoning the courage to let someone else through the walls that you had built; ones that protected you from getting hurt, that prevented anyone from getting too close to see the damaged person you were.

“Nightmares.” You said, breaking the silence.

“Pardon?” John questioned, forgetting about his vow of silence.

“I have nightmares.” You repeated. John scoffed before taking another bite of his toast.

“Likely story. You’ll have to try harder than that.” He muttered under his breath. You grit your teeth together as your hands tightened on the tea cup.

“Do you know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning?” You asked, changing tactics, “And I don’t mean in that dream state where your body forgets to breath and that’s the way your brain reminds your body to do its job. Drowning in real life is like being swallowed up by darkness; it’s a slow and painful process, knowing that you are helpless to do to prevent it. Your body screams, crying out for the oxygen it needs to survive and you struggle with deciding to take that breath or not. Eventually, your body makes the decision for you, acting out of instinct and habit and the water rushes into your lungs, burning your throat and airways. And somehow during that entire process, you need to come to terms that you are going to die. That there is no way out of that situation.”

“What’s drowning got to do with you sharing Sherlock’s bed?” John asked and you drew in a deep breath. Behind you, Sherlock let out a little noise of frustration.

“How do you survive with the thinking capabilities you possess?” Sherlock threw his arms in the air and left the room, his house coat billowing behind him. John grimaced at Sherlock’s comment while he thought about your conversation. You closed your eyes and wished to be somewhere else, anywhere other than sitting in the kitchen having this conversation with John.

“The night at the pool.” John finally said, making the connection at last. You opened your eyes and looked at his face, taking in the scruff that adorned his cheeks, the lines around his mouth and his blue eyes.

“It’s hard to explain but the nightmares don’t occur as often here and for some reason Sherlock’s presence seems to keep them at bay.”

“Sherlock did pull you from the pool.” John mused, giving your hand a small squeeze and offering you an apologetic smile.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that you still have nightmares.” You replied as you blushed.

“Nothing to apologize for. I know what it’s like to relive moments of the past.” John squeezed your hand once more before standing up and placing his dishes in the sink.

*********

John was under the impression that the nightmares had started after the meeting with Moriarty at the pool and you had strived to keep it that way. John wasn’t aware of your past any more than LeStrade or Molly were. How could any one of them understand what you had gone through? All the trials, all the testimonies, all the therapists, all the social workers, the foster homes, the feelings of anger and self –loathing that never truly disappeared, the inability to form a healthy relationship with anyone. It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to tell them.

 At one time, you had told a whole court room, several child psychiatrists, police officers and social workers and they all gave you the same look. Pity mixed with sadness and mild disgust. You saw it in the eyes of everyone who knew your story; foster parents who were afraid of letting you going near their children, balding police officers making whispered jokes that they would be see you again, tired-looking social workers who seemed to be more interested with meeting their quotas than actually helping, and psychiatrists who paid lip service to the same line over and over again all whilst pocketing the government’s money. You didn’t want anyone to look at you with pity and disdain again, especially John. There had been countless times that you sat on the same worn, leather couch, in the same drab looking room and heard the same speech. The only thing that ever changed was the voice saying, “It’s not your fault.” No one told you that it was going to be okay. No one told you that you could move on from this, that you could still be a functioning individual despite the damage that had been caused. None of those useless, disinterested people bothered to try and piece you back together; they had left you to flounder in the dark, trying to cope with what had happened. So you began to internalize all those feelings, burying them in the deepest recesses of your mind. You dragged yourself out of bed each day, forcing a cheerful smile on your face until you convinced the world that your experience had never occurred. Every night, the nightmares reappeared; your uncle’s leering face and grasping hands, your mother’s tears sliding over bruised and swollen cheeks, the yelling, the creak of the staircase, the constant feeling of terror. You had woken each night, tears streaming down your face, sweat drenching your clothes but no one came. No one had ever understood; no one until Sherlock.

He knew what it was like to slip under the torrent of doubts and uncertainties that swirled through a person’s mind. Sherlock understood the meaning of being a social reject, unable to find a place to avoid those self-loathing thoughts, a safe haven against all the harshness that existed in the world. People thought that the consulting detective had turned to drugs to get high, to keep the adrenaline rush that he constantly craved but there was an ulterior motive. He used the drugs as a way to escape, to disconnect himself from the people around him and make it easier to objectify the human race. Sherlock had essentially done the same thing you had; built some measure that would keep people from getting too close and hurting you. He had a hard and cold exterior that acted as a repellant to all but the most resilient of people. Your exterior was approachable but you had constructed wall kept anyone from getting to know you. Yet somehow Sherlock managed to slip through the cracks in your defense and make a home in your mind. You needed him to ease the pain away, to soothe the fear that the world was falling apart.

But Sherlock was no longer here. He was lying on some cold steel table in the basement of West Haven being prepped for his own funeral; cold, alone and dead with the undertaker for company.

You bowed your head as the tears began to slip down your cheeks, each one a feeling that your mouth could not express in words. John hurriedly rose from the couch and crouched in front of your chair.

“Look at me _______.” There was underlying pain in his voice and you brought your tear-filled eyes to his face. “This will get better. Trust me.”

“How do you know?” you asked, the tears falling faster the more you allowed the pain to overwhelm you.

“I don’t. I’m pretty sure I’m just repeating some psychological mumbo jumbo I heard my shrink say but it has a nice sound to it. ” John took your hand and gave you a half smile. “We’ll go through this together. I promise. Now how abouts we order some takeaway and watch one of your terrible comedies.”

“They’re not terrible.” You said, pushing the pain back and giving John a half-hearted smile. “Chinese?”

After watching several terrible comedies and making some very bad attempts at eating your food with chopsticks, your eyelids were beginning to droop with the weight of the previous sleepless nights. The last thing you heard was the obnoxious laughter of the Three Stooges echoing in your ears.

********

_The skies were dark, filled with grey clouds that were pregnant with rain. You glanced uneasily at the sky, praying that you could make the office before the skies decided to empty their burden upon the city. You rounded the corner and opened up a side door of St. Agnes Hospital as the first heavy drops hit the pavement. With a sigh of a relief, you mount the grey steps to the 6 th floor laboratories; intent on getting the day’s set of tests started. You walked down the beige hall with long strides and pushed the swinging door open only to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock bouncing a ball against the counter. He sat on the floor with his head resting against the cupboard behind him; his intelligent eyes red and his curls wild after a night of furious thought. The ball kept a steady rhythm against the cabinet. Bang, thud, bang, thud.  _

_“Sherlock?” You called out tentatively, worry creasing your brow. Gently, you set your jacket and keys on the stool off to you left. No one had seen the detective for the past twenty four hours; after he had disappeared with John the previous day.  He looked up you, a question behind the sadness in his eyes. With practiced ease, he caught the ball and pushed himself to his feet, groaning from sitting too long in one position._

_“I suppose it’s time.” Sherlock murmured, a grimace pulling down the corners of his cupid bow lips._

_“Time for what, Sherlock?” You asked, taking a step towards him. His frown deepened, causing a crease to appear in his forehead as he turned away from you. This was not a good sign. “Talk to me Sherlock. I can help.”_

_“I doubt it.” He said quietly, his voice lacking all of its usual conviction before brushing past you and striding towards the door. You reached out and caught his wrist as he passed; the touch was enough to halt the detective in his tracks. Sherlock looked down at your hand wrapped around his arm and his brow wrinkled in confusion at your action. “On second thought,” His blue-green eyes caught yours as the wrinkles smoothed away. “Soon I am going to walk out that door and I need you to stay here in this room. It is very important.”_

_“I don’t understand Sherlock.” You were unable to keep the concern from leaking into your voice. “How will staying here help you?”_

_“Just stay here. Please.” His phone buzzed and with a sigh, he broke eye contact for a moment, looking towards the door. When Sherlock looked back, his gaze intensified as he studied your face, taking in the freckles, your troubled eyes, the hair that always hung in your face._

_“Sherlock?”_

_“Be safe darling.” Sherlock murmured as he carefully placed his long, cool hands on your cheeks. He gently pulled you towards him and much to your surprise, his lips brushed against your forehead. You felt yourself stiffened against the unfamiliar gesture, shock paralyzing your thoughts. With one final, pleading look, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode out the door, his coats snapping at his ankles._

_MOVE! Your brain commanded your limbs and you stumbled forward on leaden legs. Pushing the door open, you entered the hall and looked around frantically. The black fabric of Sherlock’s coat disappearing into the elevator but by the time you reached it, the doors had shut. Tears began to form in your eyes as you placed a hand on the cold metal door. A ding interrupted the fog of sadness that was beginning to reach for you with wispy tendrils. Glancing above the elevator, you saw the light move steadily upwards._

_Where is he going? Surely there is nothing on the top floors that he needs. Although knowing Sherlock…. You gasp and head towards the nearest stairwell. Climbing the stairs two at a time, you push past an orderly and a blonde woman chatting on the stairs. Their protests echoed off the stone walls as you continue to climb; your breath coming in short bursts._

_Two more flights. Body don’t fail me now. Your legs were starting to cramp at their prolonged use and you stumbled, banging your wrist off the edge of a step and eliciting a string of swear words that would have made John blush. You grabbed the hand rail and with a large amount of effort, you placed your feet back underneath you and regained an upright position. You climbed the last two flights and reached the door that lead to the roof. A high-pitched giggle reached your ears as you placed your hand on the door knob and you felt as if your blood had turned to ice. Moriarty was on the other side of that door and it was almost enough to send you running back down the steps you had laboured so hard to get up._

_One rational thought made it through the curtain off terror that was descending on you. Sherlock is out there. Summoning all of your courage, you turned the knob and threw the door open. You gasped at the scene before you. Sherlock no longer wore his long trench coat but a dark suit; a half-finished bow-tie hung around his neck. His curls looked as if he had purposefully combed them to either side of his head. He stood balanced on the concrete lip, looking at the pavement below him.  Sherlock turned quickly and panic gripped your heart as his foot caught and he lost his balance._

_“You shmuck! Don’t ruin the fun before we even get started!” A voice shouted from your left. You turned to find Jim Moriarty moving to grab onto Sherlock’s jacket. Moriarty’s hair was no longer slicked back but was styled in a bowl cut fashion and his perfectly groomed eyebrows were thick and bushy. He was dressed in a worn tweed jacket with large black patches sown on the elbows. Neither of them had taken notice to the intruder on the rooftop._

_“Hello?” You called to the pair of men. No response._

_“Why does the ground look so far from here?” Sherlock said, holding a pair of binoculars up to his face, looking through the larger end. Jim grabbed them from Sherlock’s hands and turned the binoculars around before shoving them back at the detective. Sherlock’s arms began to pin wheel as he fell forward and Moriarty grabbed the back of his jacket and steadied him._

_“Has Johnny arrived yet?” Moriarty drawled. Sherlock looked through the binoculars again before giving a large wave. You moved closer the edge and glanced over. John stood there looking rounder than normal, the buttons of his light brown jacket straining for his belly._

_“Johnny’s here. He’s brought the safety net.” Sherlock called out as he stepped down from ledge. “It seems awfully high Mo. Should we be jumping from here?”_

_“Of course it is!” Moriarty seemed shocked that Sherlock would even suggest that his ideas were terrible. “The ground isn’t that far away. Look through the binoculars Sherly.” Sherlock obliged and looked through them to where Johnny stood on the ground, holding a large hoop with white fabric stretched between it._

_“Well gee, that doesn’t look that far at all.” Sherlock commented. “This might be one of your good ideas Mo.”_

_“When are you going to realize that all of my ideas are good ideas?” Moriarty leaned over the side of the building and called out to John. “Ready down there, Johnny?” He must have gotten a positive answer because he turned to Sherlock who looked puzzled, his brow furrowed in thought._

_“Mo, what about the time that you decided to strap bombs to people? Or when you wanted to make people into shoes?” Sherlock said quickly, “People wouldn’t make very good shoes Mo. They would make lots of noises and sounds. I don’t think people would really like being shoes, they probably have jobs and families.”_

_During Sherlock’s rambling, Moriarty’s face began to turn red and pinched looking as he pressed his lips together. “You think you’re a wise guy eh? Think you can come up with better ideas than the master Sherly?” Without warning, Moriarty stood on his tip toes and poked Sherlock in the eyes. Sherlock stumbled back and fell over the edge of the building rubbing his injured eyes._

_“I’ll catch you Sherly!” John called out and ran almost comedically ran around the pavement, trying to judge the best position to catch his friend. Finally, he found a good position and braced for impact, his arm holding the safety net high. Suddenly a biker ran into John, knocking him to the ground and the net from his arms. Just as Sherlock hit the ground with a sickening crunch, you jolted awake._

*********

You opened your eyes to find the faces of Larry, Curly and Moe on the telly screen. You glanced over to John’s sleeping form on the couch and prayed that he was having better dreams than you. Standing, you covered John with a blanket and bent down to kiss his forehead.

“Goodnight John.” You whispered before turning off the telly and heading to bed.

         

 

                                               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making the choice to read my story. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think.


	11. The Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *******  
> PLEASE READ  
> As you read through this, I would really appreciate if you listened to this song. It is a wonderful piano piece suggested by BittersweetNostalgia and it fits the chapter beautifully. Thank you so much for your suggestion. Here's the link so you can have a listen.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnWfpFl0B0s  
> ********

You awoke, swatting at the hands shaking you.

“Go away. I don’t want it.” You muttered, attempting to roll out of reach of the person who just pulled you from the first dreamless sleep you had had in weeks.

“__________.” John whispered then a little more firmly when he saw how reluctant you were to wake up. “_________.”

“A little longer.” You murmured, pulling the covers over your head to block out the light from the window.

“Can’t do that _______.” John replied, stripping the blankets from the bed and instinctively you adopted the fetal position with your hands over your face. You shivered as the cold air caressed you skin and chasing away the warmth. “Rise and shine. We have places to be and…” John voice caught in his throat causing you to look over your shoulder at him. His eyes were once again rimmed with red and his face pale and haggard. John’s clothes were wrinkled from the night spent curled up on the couch. “Goodbyes to say.” He finished finally.

“John,” You began. John shook his head tersely and looked at the ground.

“Just get up.” He replied, blinking back the tears that had formed in his eyes. “Please.” John added as an afterthought.  He turned and slowly walked out of the room, using the back of his hand to wipe his eyes. You watch his retreating back before rolling over to stare at the ceiling. John was hurting and probably had spent the last couple of hours trying to keep busy while you slept. Your body began to ache as sadness descended like a heavy blanket, replacing the ones John tore from your bed. You lingered on John’s last words. ‘Goodbyes to say.”

Today was Saturday and it was time to say goodbye to one of the only people who understood your darkness and accepted all of you. Sherlock was gone and with him was the last person who knew the true you.

**********

You dropped into the chair in front of the ever-present mess that Sherlock called the desk. There was a book detailing the various tattoos that cults used and an old newspaper yellowing underneath it. A myriad of photos from the last crime scene peeked out from a manila folder. You turned the chair to see the yellow smiley face Sherlock had sprayed painted on the wallpaper in a moment of boredom. Bullet holes peppered the wall and you could imagine the look on Mrs. Hudson’s face she saw the damage.

_What is taking that man so long?_

“C’mon Sherlock! I have to use the loo.” You called, bouncing in the chair in an attempt to distract yourself from your urge to pee. “Honestly, how long does it take to you to pee? John can wank one off in the time you’ve been in that bathroom.” Turning the chair back to the desk, your elbow knocked a precariously balanced pile of manila folders to the floor. You stooped down to retrieve the folders, when one of the labels caught your eye. A thick yellow folder lay at the bottom, papers spilling from it.

“What in the world?” You whispered to yourself as you picked up the folder and shifted through the contents. This wasn’t just the standard police report of your court case. These papers contained the details of your past and your childhood. The first paper was submitted by the first social worker who handled your cases.

“Child has small round bruises on upper arms, thighs and ankles. Genitals are swollen and bruised and welts are present on buttocks and lower back.” You turned the page, forcing the memories of your uncle from your head. The next sheet was a report from the psychologist stating that “Child is unresponsive to therapy. Chooses to repress the memories rather than speak about them. Spent the entire session in silence. Diagnosis: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” The sheets continued, each abuse report filed by your grandparents against your uncle, the foster care transfers, the death report of your granddad and the final court case that determined your uncle was guilty. Lastly, there was a picture of your granddad and you ran your fingers over it lovingly. Tears began to prick your eyes and you blinked them away as the floor boards creaked in the hallway.

“How long have you known?” you whispered, your voice thick with sorrow at the memories swirling in your head. You heard Sherlock step closer and through your lashes, you could see him tilting his head to study your face.

“I suspected it since the day you walked into the room.” He drawled. You wanted to run and hide, to disappear from this room whether through a hole in the floor or through a newly discovered ability to turn invisible.

“How long have you had this?” You asked angrily, closing the folder with a snap and brandishing it in his face. Sherlock looked taken aback by your reaction and instinctively he took a step back. He had seen many emotions from you but your anger had never been directed at him.

“How long Sherlock?” You demanded, throwing the file back on the desk and scattering the file’s contents.

“Three months.” Sherlock replied quickly, realizing that he had crossed the line. You could see his mind spinning as he worked out the possible outcomes of this altercation.

“Why?” You yelled, taking a step towards him. You could feel your hands begin to shake as the anger and betrayal got the best of you. “I am not a puzzle for you to solve, Sherlock Holmes. I am not a case that can be tied up in a nice, neat bow nor am I a conundrum that keeps you up at night. How can -“

“But you are.” Sherlock said quietly, stopping your rant in your tracks.

“I am what?” You questioned, caught off guard by his statement.

“You have proven to be one of the most challenging puzzles I have encountered.” Sherlock looked at your face and you were caught up in his intelligent eyes. There was a light behind them and it shocked you to see that he was being completely honest.

“I don’t understand.” You murmured. “How can I be any kind of puzzle?” You sank back into the chair and spun away from Sherlock’s confused look. You heard the floor creak as he transferred his weight to the other foot. There was a moment of silence and as you determined your choices: accept that you were going to have either endure the pitying looks and sidelong glances or move on.

 Sherlock let out a gusty sigh as the couch creaked under his weight. “The day you arrived in the pouring rain, I glanced in your direction and dismissed you as insignificant. You were utterly boring and not worth a moment of my time. If it hadn’t been from John’s intervention, our chance meaning would had been on the crime scene of the woman in pink and the contact at a bare minimum. As you sat in John’s chair, with the rain dripping from your hair, I couldn’t read you with the usual ease I could the common rabble. There were certain things that stuck out but those things only brought more questions than answers. You exchanged pleasantries but the way you held your body, indicated that you were guarded in your ways and uncertain of being in the apartment with two strange men. It was then that I suspected a man, someone close to you, physically harmed you although I did not guess the extent of said harm.”

You heard Sherlock draw in a deep breath before continuing, “You expertly directed any attention away from you and increased my suspicion that you had something to hide.  A secret that was not easily found despite my expertise in such things.” You scoffed at his arrogance and studied the pleats in the drapes.

“I did not anticipate the,” Sherlock paused, hesitant to say the word, “friendship that came from that meeting nor the complexity of the puzzle you presented me with. You wear a mask that has been perfected over the years but there are times that you have let the mask slip away and I caught glimpse into what can only be described as your past life; a life prior to harm. For many nights, I sat awake trying to piece together all the fragments that you have displayed over the past year and yet I could not make a plausible theory. Noting your reaction to Moriarty pointed me in the direction police reports indicating child abuse. Eventually, I came across your file and things began to fall into place.”

“Are you happy now? You solved the case of the sexually abused, disregarded young teen hiding behind the facade of a content adult. Are you proud of yourself Sherlock?” You whirled around in the chair, glaring at him. Your chest heaved with the emotion running through your body. Sherlock had enough decency to look abashed. You looked away as hot tears pricked your eyes and you furiously wiped them away.

“No.” Sherlock whispered into the heavy silence that had fallen between the pair of you. “I am not proud of how I proceeded. It was ill-advised.”

You looked the knick-knacks on Sherlock’s desk and studied them with a feinted interest, trying to work through what Sherlock had just said. You saw Irene Adler’s phone peeking out from under a pile of papers as well as the matchbox from one of Sherlock’s unsolvable cases. A glint of silver caught your eye and you reached towards it, lifting out the clutter. It was in the shape of small violin made from pewter; the black detailing had been worn away from being repeatedly rubbed. Turning the violin over, there was a name too worn to make out but the initials of your grandfather were visible. Your felt your eyebrows lift in surprise before shaking the idea from your head. Sherlock must have gotten this violin from the evidence box. You set the violin down and swung the chair back to face Sherlock, taking a deep breath as you did so.

“Does John know?” You asked finally and you could have sworn that Sherlock appeared relieved that you had chosen to forgive him.

“No and I doubt that Scotland Yard is even aware that the file is missing.” Sherlock broke into a smirk, looking particularly pleased with himself.

“Good. The less that everyone knows the better. I expect you to put the file back where it belongs.” You rose from the chair and crossed the living room.

“I have some questions” Sherlock said as you reached the hallway. You turned back and fixed Sherlock with a weary look.

“It would be out of character if you didn’t but can they wait until another day?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed, seeing that you were not in a mood to talk. He nodded his head and gave you a small smile. You turned and headed down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. Just as you reached the door, you heard Sherlock’s quick footsteps approaching you. He pulled you into a tight hug, holding you to his chest. Automatically your arms wrapped around him and you drew a deep breath, his scent clinging to your nose.

“It’s not your fault.” He murmured, resting his chin on your head, “It never was nor will it ever be your fault.”

Unable to stop the tears that formed in your eyes, you tighten your arms around him. The words you had waiting to hear all of your life came from the most unexpected source and the comfort you seeked came from a man who seemingly abstained from all human emotion. You drew in a shuttering breath and pulled back expecting to see a bewildered expression on Sherlock’s face but instead he wore an understanding look. You gave him a watery smile before wiping the tears away that make tracks down your face.

“Thank you Sherlock.” You said gratefully as you squeezed his hand. You entered the bathroom and closed the door behind you. For the first time since the trial, someone had a glimpse into your troubled past and rather than write you off, they had met the information with understanding and compassion. You felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders now that someone knew about your dark past and your respect for the high functioning sociopath grew. Stepping forward, you noticed something soaking into your sock.

“Honestly Sherlock, I can’t comprehend how a genius can’t figure out how to project his urine into the bloody toilet.” You shouted and you could have sworn you heard a chuckle from the hallway.

**********

You rolled out of bed, wiping the fresh tears on your face. Quietly, you chose some solemn, black clothes with a dark purple blouse. When you stepped out of the room, you caught a glimpse of John trying to make his tie lay flat on his chest. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and glanced at you helplessly. With a sad smile, you made your way to John and undid the tangle of fabric. With practiced motions, you formed John’s dark grey tie properly and stepped away. It was odd to see him without a jumper and comfortable trousers on and it added to the melancholy of the situation.

“Thanks,” John said gruffly. He cleared his throat and repeated what he said. “Thanks.” You patted him on the shoulder and walked over the window out of habit and checked the weather. The sky was overcast; the clouds dark and heavy with rain. 

 _At least you’re fitting the day today._ You thought as the first heavy drops hit the window. After a moment, you turned away, wiping the stray tears from your cheeks.

“Ready?” John asked, shrugging into his black jacket. You nodded with a sniff as you made your way back to the door, pausing only to retrieve the eulogy from the coffee table.

“Don’t want to forget this.” You joked, trying to lift the dark mood that had settled over the flat. John took the paper and folded it carefully, tucking the paper inside his jacket.

“I rather wished I could.” He replied with a grimace. “But what’s done is done.”

“John I meant…” You started, putting a hand on his arm.

“I know.” John replied with a sad smile. “I know what you meant. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

You looked over your shoulder at your living room. There were dirty tissues spilling out of the waste basket and on to the floor. The coffee table was still littered with discarded paper and Chinese take-away boxes. Lastly, your eyes came to rest on the keyboard and the sheet of music that lay haphazardly on top.  Tears began to form in your eyes as the sweet strains of a violin played in your head. You blinked causing the tears to resume their well-worn track down your face. The moment you stepped out your flat door, was the moment that you no longer could pretend that Sherlock was on a case and simply hadn’t contacted you in a few days. It was the moment where everything became final and desolate.

“_________?” John’s voice brought you back to the present and you gave him a watery smile before sniffed in the most unladylike way imaginable.  John managed a weak chuckle at the sound and together, you stepped out of the flat door and into a future devoid of Sherlock.

The cab ride was spent in silence as John stared out of the window with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. You watched the rain make its way down the window, the droplets colliding with one another was they slid in unpredictable patterns down the glass. Once again, the violin played in your head, its whispered notes falling as softly as the raindrops. The car pulled into the parking lot and John pointed the driver in the direction of the overhang. Reluctantly, you opened the door and stepped out; trying to pretend this was someone else’s funeral, someone else’s tragic loss. A tall, portly man exited the building and came to greet you and John. His suit was expensive- looking although it was not tailored to fit his broad shoulders and the jacket buttons were struggling to contain his girth.

“Ms. _______, Dr. Waston.” The man greeted the pair of you, his voice soft and smooth; the tone appropriately sad. “I’m Clarence Sutherland and I am the funeral director at West Haven. I am greatly sorry for your loss.”

You nodded, indicating that you had heard his condolences but you couldn’t find the effort to make a reply. John murmured a thank you when he realized that you weren’t going to reply.

“If you will follow me, I will get you seated before people begin to arrive.” Clarence gestured towards the doors. You followed the funeral director on wooden legs and your mouth was dry. The dread that had appeared in your chest appeared this morning, grew as you stepped in through the double doors of the funeral home. You stared at the back of Clarence’s coat, refusing to look around, denying that this moment was real, desperately wishing that this was one of your nightmares. The sounds of whispered words reached your ears from people tucked out of sight and the perfume from the abundance of flowers permeated the room.

_This is not happening. This is not real. Wake up_

“Here we are. Family members are seated here and the partition will be closed once the ceremony is concluded so they can say their last goodbyes.” The funeral director stepped to the side, revealing an immaculately dressed Mycroft. He was the picture of aloofness and indifference, dressed in a light grey suit and a black tie hung perfectly down the middle of his chest.

“Mycroft.” You nodded at him.

“________.” He replied coolly, his light eyes never leaving your face.

 _Arrogant bastard._ You thought as your hand curled into a fist.

“Mycroft.” John said, catching your eye and giving you a stern look. You took a deep breath and relaxed your hand as Mycroft greeted John.

“So nice of you to come and attend this sad affair.” Mycroft replied, offering you both a tight smile. “It saddens me that we must meet again under these circumstances.”

“It sounds like a real inconvenience for you to attend your brother funeral. Hope it didn’t pull you away from something important.” You commented vehemently.

“________.” John said in a warning tone. “Now is not the time.”

Mycroft gave you a victorious smirk as Clarence reappeared, leading Greg and Molly to their seats. Molly pulled you into a tight hug and you couldn’t hold back your tears any longer. She gave you a sad smile before taking her seat in the second row. Greg clapped his hand on your shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze.

“If you need anything, let me know.” He said quietly and you managed a grateful smile.

“Dr. Waston?” Clarence’s smooth voice came from beside you causing you to jump. “Ms. _______? May I speak to you for a quick moment?” He led you away from the group and into a quiet corner. “So I have been told that you have prepared a eulogy, Dr. Waston?”

John nodded and patted his jacket. “Right here.”

Clarence turned and looked at you with bright hazel eyes, “Mr. Holmes informed me that you would be playing a piece on the piano. Now we don’t have a piano but there is a keyboard just behind that curtain. Would that be okay?”

You stared at him with wide eyes. You couldn’t play in front all these people; you didn’t have anything prepared. You nodded as Clarence continued asking questions about the positioning of the keyboard and if you required a chair.

_Damn you Mycroft._

You made your way back to the family section and confronted Mycroft about his decision.

“You could have told me that I was to play a piano piece, Mycroft.” You hissed as more people filed into the room.

“It was my brother’s wish that you play at his funeral.” Mycroft shrugged indifferently. “Judging by the way you hold your fingers, you play the piano and thusly I picked a funeral home with that requirement in mind.”

“If everyone could find a seat, we may begin.” Clarence said from the front of the room. The remaining people quietly filled in the empty rows as Clarence began.

“We are gathered here during this time of grieving to celebrate the life of Sherlock Holmes. A man who was infamously known for his sharp wit in solving the most convoluted cases that baffled many a commoner and police officer alike,” Clarence paused before adding the part of the sentence. “especially Anderson. Is there a D. I. Gary Lestrade in the room?”

“I think he means you.” You whispered and Greg slowly got to his feet, drawing the attention of the room to him.

“I apologize for saying this but this is the speech that the deceased had written himself. The words read, ‘Honestly, LeStrade, I cannot comprehend how you could hire anyone as dull-witted as Anderson.’   Sherlock goes on to say,” Clarence continued, his voice fading as you shut him out. You shut out the beige room, the white and green flowers, the faded pink chairs and their occupants, the movements of the people around you and the closed casket. You withdrew until there was only the sound of your heart beat and focused on the rhythmic beat. For a moment, all the pain, all the grief and the extreme feeling of being lost receded into something more manageable.

“What do you think of when you hear the name Sherlock Holmes?” John’s voice broke through your focus and drew you back into the funeral home. You looked around at the people around you, seeing red eyes, noses being blown and tears. Even Donovan and Anderson looked miserable. A faint sound reached your ears as thunder growled overhead.

 _Must be the rain on the roof._ You concluded as the sound grew louder. Clarence stepped up to the podium as John took his seat beside you.

“Now I invite Ms._________ up to the front to play a piece on the keyboard.”

The chair beneath you creaked as you stood, echoing in the quiet room. With an immense amount of effort, you took the first step and then the step, each one bringing you closer to the casket and the keyboard. The room felt stifling and you unbuttoned the top button of your blouse. Slowly, you mounted the steps and crossed the stage to the keyboard. You wiped your palms on your pants, silently praying that you would make it to the chair before you fell. After taking your seat, you stared out into the crowd, their faces blurred and indistinct.

“Mr. Sutherland?” You gestured to the man to come closer. “Can you please open a window? It’s far too hot in here.” You whispered. With an understanding nod, Clarence opened the window near the front of the room. Taking several deep breaths, you placed your fingers on the keys and closed your eyes, listening to the sound of the rain hitting the pavement and dripping from the eaves. The first slow notes filled the room, reflecting the grief in the room, the rain making the perfect accompaniment.

 _Damn you Sherlock_. You thought, your fingers gliding over the keys, increasing their pace, laying the melody over the chords and repetitive runs. _How could you leave me here? Alone and scared?_

You lost yourself in the song as the thunder rumbled loudly though the rain. You let go of the anger you harboured towards him as well as the denial that he was coming back. Your body emptied of every emotion but sadness; there was only room for that feeling in this song. This was the very song you had played at your granddad’s funeral, saying good-bye the only way you had known how; through the instrument he had taught you to play. Now you were playing it for Sherlock, the only person who ever told you that it wasn’t your fault, who had accepted all your demons without a blink of an eye. No more comfort, no more childish jokes, no more gleeful waltzes, no more violin and no more quirky smile or deductions. Everything was gone. Your fingers slowed as you imagined yourself standing at the edge of a dark abyss. It called to you, whispering your name as a lover would and the longer you watched the swirls and patterns move slowly in its depths, the more you wanted to step into it.  The music slowed to a halt as you took a step nearer to the edge.

Polite clapping filled your ears and you looked up to see a room full of people rather than the darkness. John climbed back on the stage when you didn’t move from the chair. As his hand touched your arm, you felt grounded, as if John’s touch was the only thing that tethered you to this world; this reality.

“Hey.” He said softly, the concern audible in his voice, “Up you get.”

“Sorry.” You mumbled, getting to your feet. John took your hand and guided you back to your seat. Clarence said a few final words and people were invited to say their final good-byes.  You sat numbly as the people filed by the closed casket, some placing their hand on the beautifully carved lid, others simply bowing their heads. You thought you saw Anderson whisper ‘I’m sorry’ before moving away. Once the last of the public said their farewells, the partition was closed and it was the family’s turn.  You took the last spot in line, delaying the inevitable moment as long as possible. Mycroft went first, pausing only briefly before leaving the room. Greg followed after bowing his silver head in respect. Mrs. Hudson was a mess, breaking into hysterical sobs and Molly led her from the room. It was John’s turn and he looked at the casket, the muscle in his jaw working but there were no tears in those blue eyes. After several tense moments, John stiffened into a soldier’s stance and saluted his friend’s photo, which gazed at him smugly from a wreath of flowers. Without a word, John left the room, leaving you standing beside the casket. You raised your hand and gingerly placed it on the wood. The open window made the wood feel cool under your warm hands.

“For a man who claimed to have no friends, you’ve hurt a lot of people.” You said the picture. “Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, they’re all wrecks with blotchy faces, dripping noses and these things called tears. You made them that way, causing them grief and anguish.” You paused, blinking back tears, “And I don’t think John will ever forgive himself for not being able to stop you from jumping. You’ve broken him, Sherlock and I don’t know how to put him back together.” You swallowed hard, “As for me,” The words didn’t want to come out. “I just want to thank you. You were the first person in my life that understood the real me and didn’t push me away. You saw the darkness and greeted it with open arms.”  You whispered at last. Sherlock’s picture blurred as tears filled your eyes.   You stood there for another moment before removing your hand from the casket and walking away. Stopping in the doorway, you watched the funeral parlor workers lifting the casket under the direction of Mr. Sutherland and carry it solemnly out to the hearse.

You climbed into the back Mycroft’s luxury sedan and took a seat on the plush bench. John climbed in after and closing the door; Mycroft had chosen to ride in the front seat for once. The procession to the cemetery was slow and quiet. No one spoke a word as Mycroft’s driver followed the hearse closely. Pulling into the churchyard, you studied the names on the tombstones as they went by. People who have long been forgotten by the living, the moss covered stones marking their final resting place. Soon Sherlock would be one of them. The car pulled up beside a grove of pine tree and you could see where the nicely manicured lawn had been cut into. The rain had died down on the way to cemetery so the umbrellas that were provided were no longer necessary. The burial site seemed miles away and you numbly followed John to the edge of it. The casket was set on the supporting poles and the flowers placed on the lid. Clarence said some parting words and welcomed everyone back to Mycroft’s home for the wake. You caught the bitter expression on Mycroft face at the mention of his home being invaded by the common rabble and you could help the smirk that appeared on your face. People slowly began filing away until it was you and John standing there.

“He’s really gone, isn’t he?” John asked, looking everywhere but the casket. You nodded and pulled him into a fierce hug, the sobs breaking through your restraint. John’s arms wrapped around you, providing you with much needed shelter against the warring emotions inside. “We’ll get through this __________. I promise.”

As long as you had John, things didn’t seem so bleak and empty.  

***********

Glancing around, Clarence climbed into the eldest Holmes car and pulled off his wig and face mask.

“That was bit much.” Mycroft said, “Inviting people into my home. I won’t be able to get the scent out for days.”

Sherlock smirked at his brother’s discomfort. It was only appropriate that Mycroft host the wake as his younger sibling had died. “Do you think they suspected anything?”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, “I highly doubt they suspected anything. They were far too grief-stricken to notice the discrepancies in Mr. Sutherland’s character. Emotions are a tedious thing which is why I try not have too many of them.”

“Right.” Sherlock replied looking out the window, troubled by the words you had spoken over his casket. John and ________ would understand why he had to make it seem like he had committed suicide and put them through all the pain and misery. Wouldn’t they?  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on my story so far and I really appreciate the feedback.   
> Let me know what you thought of this one and it you didn't listen to the song posted at the beginning, I suggest you listen to it.


	12. Unexpected Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to offer an apology about how long this took. I lost all desire to write over the past couple months when other factors in my life began to pile up and I don't handle change with any sort of grace.  
> I want to thank all the people who inquired about the next update and reminded me that some of the best stress relievers are a piece of paper, a pen, and a rainy day.  
> Enjoy!  
> Here the link to song I listened to write this one. Sarah McLachlan's Arms of an Angel  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SiylvmFI_8  
> Here is the link to the piano song I imagine the Reader playing. Another beautiful Brian Crain song called Childhood Memories:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XS2KqPMYU4

 

“Do we have to go to the wake John?” You asked, pulling away from him and looking towards the emptying parking lot. “I don’t think I can sit through another round of half-hearted condolences when I know they are only there for the food.”

John followed your gaze to the last of the mourners ambled to their vehicles. “It’s only proper.” He managed a weak chuckle, “Even if they are only there for the food.”

“I hate proper. Sherlock would have hated all this fuss.” You commented, taking a crumpled tissue out of your pocket and blowing your nose.

“Perhaps on the outside but he would be secretly pleased with it.” John replied as you both started down the gravel path to the waiting car.

“Are you sure we can’t go to the pub instead?” You tried one more time as John opened the door and gestured for you to get in. “Isn’t that what you did for a fallen soldier? Toast them with a pint of beer?”

“Or a couple bottles of whiskey.” John replied. “Depended on how close you were to the bloke. Now in you get.”

“Do you think Mycroft will have a pint of beer in his fridge?” You asked, sliding across the seat and fastening your seat belt. John climbed in and closed the door with a small grin on his face before emitted a noise that was close to a snort which caused you to smile.

“Mycroft and beer?” John repeated with an incredulous tone. “I doubt it, only the finest aged scotch for the elder of the Holmes brothers.”

“Scotch? I would have pegged him for a robust bottle of port stored in the finest crystal decanter, hand crafted back in the 1600’s.” You replied as the image of Mycroft swirling red liquid in a glass while sitting on a leather armchair. John snickered before turning his head to look out the window, the dismal expression returning to his tired face. This was usually the moment Sherlock would either make a equip about his older brother or inform you that crystal that was made in the 1600’s contained lead and due to the acidic qualities of the alcohol, there was a danger that lead would be leeched into the drink itself rendering it unsafe to drink. That’s what he would have said had he been sitting in the cab rather than laying buried under six feet of cold, wet dirt. You felt the tears prick your eyes as a heavy blanket of silence fell over the backseat of the car. Buildings went flashing by as the taxi made its way through London’s wet streets.

*********

Sherlock slouched in one of Mycroft’s wing-backed armchairs staring at the bookshelf on the opposing wall, his fingers steepled under his chin and a small frown adorned his lips. The large suit belonging to Clarence Sutherland, the funeral director, hung off Sherlock’s body as if he had lost an immense amount of weight in a short period of time. Sherlock was waiting; waiting for people to leave, for someone to bring him some tea and a change of clothes. There were many things that Sherlock should have been thinking about like the fact he was about to disembark on a dangerous mission to disband Moriarty’s criminal network.  He should have been planning aliases, looking for leads, learning languages but Sherlock was unable to focus on the future when something from his past troubled his mind.  With an audible sigh, Sherlock sank lower into the uncomfortable chair and threw an irritated look about the room, trying to shake away your quiet voice and John’s grim face.  His fingers began to drum impatiently on the leather arm rest. With a spur of energy, Sherlock launched himself out of the chair and wandered about the room, taking in the fact that Mycroft’s house keeper had been sweeping dust under the rug and the level of port in the crystalline decanter was rather low. Either Mycroft was letting the running of the government get to him or the maid was helping herself.  He glanced at the books on the side table and deemed them unimportant before rifling through the stack of notes beside them; nothing to distract him, to occupy his mind from the mindless howls that Mrs. Hudson emitted or the wretched look in Geoff’s eyes as he stood over an empty coffin.

_Blast! Where is the bloody newspaper?_

Sherlock began to pace, trying to go over unsolved cases from past ventures but he couldn’t concentrate as piano music echoed in his ears. The pace quickened.

********

People mingled around Mycroft’s living room, chatting in appropriately hushed tones but as you walked through the crowd, you could hear laughter and you hated it.

 _This is a sad occasion. Take your happiness elsewhere._ You thought with an irrational anger. You wanted to throw yourself in the nearest chair and weep at the loss of your friend and these people were treating this occasion as another chance to catch up with one another. Looking about the room, you attempted to locate John but you were unable to find him amongst the bodies. You turned around, wondering if he was in the dining room when you collided with someone. Your eyes flew open as their drink spilled down their pristine, white shirt.

“I am so sorry.” You exclaimed, taking a step back. “I’ll find some club soda to get that out.”  Turning to head to the kitchen, you bumped into one of the waiters carrying a tray of small wine glasses.  The tray tipped to the side and the sound of tinkling reached your ears as the glass cups shattered on the floor causing you to cringe. The room fell silent and it felt like every pair of eye was staring at you.

 “I…I…I…” You stammered, looking at the ceiling, trying to keep the tears out of your eyes. “I need to go.” Without looking back, you fled the room, nudging people out of your way. Upon reaching the hall, you leaned against the wall and slowly sank to the floor, your head on your knees. The tears could not be stopped this time and your body heaved with the amount of grief and embarrassment you were feeling.

 _Damn you Sherlock! You just had to… You didn’t even ask…I have been there…_  The thoughts that flew through your head were becoming incoherent as the anger took hold, furious that Sherlock hadn’t even thought about the aftermath of his decision. He was so bloody selfish that rather than face the world and prove that he was indeed the ‘real deal’, he jumped.  He jumped off the building and you saw him fall.

_I should have read the signs. The abnormal behaviour, the sadness, the show of emotion. I should have told him to stay. That I needed him to go over some test results with me despite the names he would call me. I should have followed him, I should have told him what he meant to me. I was so caught up in the idea that this would fraud business would blow over and life would continue relatively the same. Gods, what an idiot I was. I am… so sorry Sherlock. I should have told you to stay…._

You looked up, tears streaming down your cheeks as someone cleared their throat in a reluctant manner. Mycroft stood before you, clearly uncomfortable with your display of emotions,

“What do you want Mycroft? Here to bill me for your floor?” You asked, unable to keep the spite out of your voice.

“Come with me.” He ordered in his usual cool demeanor. You stopped a retort from escaping your lips and clambered to your feet. Mycroft led you wordlessly down the hall, up a flight of stairs and down another hall before stopping in front of dark, cherry wood door. He motioned for you to open the door and before turning and leaving you alone in the hall. You stood outside the door, pondering what the room could possibly contain.

 _He probably didn’t want you to continue to making a spectacle of yourself. That and the floors are safer._ Curiosity finally got the better of you and with some hesitation, you turned the door knob. The door hinges uttered a quiet groan as if this door had not been open for a length of time. Carefully, you stepped into the room and allowed your eyes to adjust to the gloom. Feeling the wall beside the door, your finger came in contact with the light switch and you flipped it on.  You looked about the room in awe. The room had a long, curved ceiling with curtained windows running the entire length of the outer wall. From the ceiling hung a large, crystal chandelier, its beads although dusty, still threw rainbows across the white paint above it but all these details were not what held your attention. Your eyes were glued on the grand piano that sat below the chandelier. The piano was neither the standard black nor the less frequent white; it had a deep brown colour that allowed the chevron pattern of the wood to show. The lid was propped open, displaying all the strings and inner working of the instrument. Hand-carved legs sat on caster wheels, making the large piano easier to move around. You approached it as one would wild animal, with a shaking hand outstretched and slow movements. The acoustics of the room picked up the sound of your footsteps and echoed it back to you. Once you reached the piano, you ran your eyes hungrily over the golden letters of the manufacturer, the curves of the fall board hiding the black and white keys from view and the straight lines of the music rack. Unlike the rest of the room, there was not a speck of dust adorning the instrument’s surfaces.

 _Granddad would have loved to you to play on._  You thought, running your fingers along the wood. With the gentleness of a mother, you lifted the fall board and let slid back into its place against the housing.  You eased the bench out and sat on the cushioned top, your foot automatically coming to rest on a pedal. Tentatively, you pressed a key and listened to the pitch of the note as it filled the room. Trying a couple more keys, you came to the conclusion that the piano was perfectly tuned, not that you should have expected less from a Holmes brother. With one final moment to decide what you were going to play, you closed your eyes and were swept away in the song.

*******

Sherlock had settled into a steady pace, deep in thought when piano music interrupted his concentration. He paused, his head tilted as he listened to the notes drifting through the wall. Suddenly images flashed before his eyes: the way you sat with perfect posture yet angled slightly to the side, the expression on your face when you let the music take over your body, the melody that lingered about the room like a forgotten friend.

_Sherlock dove into his mind palace in search of a memory that occurred long before Mycroft had taught Sherlock about a way to store vital information and closest secrets with the tools of organization and memory. He ran along the rooms, throwing doors open and quickly shifting through the memories before slamming the door and moving on. When Sherlock reached the hallway where he stored all his musical accomplishments, he threw open the carved wooden doors with confidence._

_It is musical in nature so logically it should be stored in here._

_An audience of people clapped and cheered as he walked across the front of the room, the loudest being his mother but Sherlock didn’t dwell on the embarrassment she was causing him but on the old gentleman in the front row with an empty seat beside him. The gentleman smiled encouragingly at him, his green eyes crinkling at the corners, and nodded towards the steps of the stage. With an uncertainty that Sherlock had not felt since he was small, he climbed the steps and picked up violin placed on the stage. Tucking it under his chin, he placed the bow on the strings and played several screeching notes._

_“Sorry.” He muttered before tuning one of the strings. He glanced out into the crowd, trying to see the faces of the audience members but the spot lights made it nearly impossible._

_Hands are shaking, forehead is sweating, wrong notes. I think I am nervous._

_Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear way the thoughts like his teacher taught him._

_The best music comes from the heart. The heart does not think, William but it feels with such ferocity that sometimes we do not have the ability to speak using words. We use the instrument to speak for us and show the world how we feel. Pain, grief, joy, fear, anger, any emotion you can imagine can be expressed through music. Until you surrender yourself to your heart and allow your feeling to speak through your music, all it will ever be is jumble of squiggles blackening a page._

_Sherlock placed the bow back down on the strings and attempt to play the song for the second time. He winced as the hideous notes reached his ears and he imagined that Mycroft was sitting beside their father with a large smirk on his face. Sherlock placed the violin back on the stand and stalked off the stage, his coat tails flapping behind him. This memory was not the one he was looking for nor one he wish to relive. It had been humiliating and disappointing. The one person he had been waiting to show up never did and resulted in several months devoid of music and lessons._

_Sherlock strode out of the concert hall and back into his mind palace. He slowly descended the steps, pausing to looking down each hallway before continuing. At each passing flight of stairs, the paint on the wall began to peel and crack with age, wallpaper was replaced with bricks and the windows were replaced with display cases that held dusty trophies that no one cared about._

_“I must have missed it.” Sherlock muttered, gazing down a dingy hallway with flickering florescent lights. He turned to climb the stairs once more when faint notes from a piano reached his ears. Sherlock followed the sound to the end of the hallway only to be met by a set of closed double doors. Pressing his ear against one of the doors, the music became more clear and familiar, the melody you had been playing.  With a hesitant hand, Sherlock pressed down on the latch and drew the heavy door open._

_Sherlock stepped into a rather old auditorium of sorts. Chairs were stacked haphazardly around the gym like someone had started tidying them up and got distracted. Music stands sat in small semi-circles, never more than five in a spot, looking like odd metal trees sprouting from the wooden floor.  The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows causing dust motes to dance and swirl in the warm beams. A slight breeze stirred the edges of Sherlock’s trench coat, bringing with it the scent of decaying leaves to mingle the musty smell of the banners that hung forgotten on the walls._

_At the far side of the room was stage lit by white spot lights that hung from the rafters. There was a rather large, rectangular piano angled towards the back wall and cutting off Sherlock’s view of the pianist. Moving quietly, Sherlock skirted the edge of the room, trying to get a better look. As the stage grew closer, he could see that the edges of the piano possessed a roundness that could have only been made by the repetitive touch of hundreds of hands. As the music played on, Sherlock found himself enraptured by the sound; by the flow and ebb of the melody and the constant shift in volume and pace._

_A sharp clatter broke the spell of the music as Sherlock bumped into a stand and it fell to the tiled floor.  Sherlock winced but the pianist played on as if they had not heard the interruption.  Finally reaching the stage, Sherlock moved so he was able to see who was the source of this beautiful song. There was girl around the age of nine who sat with her back straight and her body angled away from the mess of chairs and stands.  The song finished and the girl’s hands fell away from the keys only to be placed gently in her lap._

_Sherlock cleared his throat and the girl turned to look at him, surprise written across her features._

_“Oh hello.” She said, turning to study him with curious eyes. Her head tilted to one side as she bit her lip “You must be granddad’s new student. He said that had taken on a new one although he keeps saying that he is so busy.”_

_Sherlock studied the girl with intensity, taking in the faint bruise on her forehead, her tightly braided hair and rather plain outfit. There was a red stain on the pocket of her jumper along with some bread crumbs stuck in the wool. Her trousers looked slightly too small and had a neon striped pattern around the ankles._

_“You had a jam sandwich for lunch and spilled your milk on your trousers so you had to change into some trousers from the lost and found bin.” He blurted before he could stop himself._

_The girl’s head tilted the opposite way and rather than commenting on his odd talent of observation, she broke into a large grin._

_“You’re right, I did. I am just waiting for my Granddad to get back with a spare set of trousers." She appeared to be delighted in his observational skills Sherlock stared speechless as this young girl talked to him or rather at him. Sherlock remembered feeling astonished that she talked so easily to him; without disdain or annoyance, without the mention of the word freak or weirdo. Sherlock opted to remain silent as she continued to talk about her day._

_“You don’t talk much.” She finally noticed Sherlock’s quietness. “What instrument do you play?”_

_“I…I… haven’t given it much thought.” Sherlock stammered, feeling idiotic that he had started classes in a music school without an inkling of what he was going to play._

_“You have lovely, long fingers.” She said, studying his fingers that clung to the edge of the stage. Sherlock looked down at the aforementioned body parts and thought that they looked rather stubby to him. “A string instrument would probably be best.” She continued._

_“But…”_

_The girl leaned towards him and said in a whisper, “Granddad will mostly like start you on the cello only because he needs one for the stringed quartet but I think you would be best at the violin.” She stated matter-of-factly._

_“How do you..?” Sherlock said, trying to get a word in._

_“I need someone to accompany me on the piano.” She changed the subject. Without looking at the piano, she played a run of notes and ended with flair. “Granddad says that everyone has a musical match but nobody in this building is mine. Maybe you will be.” The girl turned back to the piano and began to play the song Sherlock heard when he had entered the room. Sherlock watched as the girl was seemingly lost in the beginning chords, her body swaying with the music._

_As he listened to the music, he wanted to play along with her, to accompany her on whatever instrument he was capable of playing. Footsteps interrupted Sherlock’s new train of thoughts and a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder._

_“Ah. I see you have met our new student, Bean.” Sherlock turned to find an older gentlemen smiling at him with kind, green eyes surrounded by crow’s feet. The girl declined to answer. “Well my lad, did you have an instrument in mind? I have a cello that is aching to have its strings tickled.”_

_Sherlock noted that the volume of the girl’s playing had decreased as if she was waiting for his answer as well. He looked back to the stage to see that her swaying motion had stilled and her fingers lightly caressed the keys._

_“Violin.” Sherlock finally answered, tearing his blue-green eyes away from the sight before him. “I want to play the violin.”_

_“Very well William, let’s see if we can’t find you your very own violin to play.” The gentleman said, drawing Sherlock towards the door. Sherlock looked back to find the girl looking at him, a small smile on her lips before the expression faded and she disappearing into the music._

Sherlock came out of his mind palace with a gasp as if he had been holding his breath for an extended period of time. Despite his ability to solve cases based on the most outrageous evidence or lack of evidence, Sherlock had been unable to follow the clues that connected you with his past. Sherlock sank down into the uncomfortable armchair and began to line up the dates and incident reports your police file and life you had led beforehand.

********

You placed your hands in your lap as the piece you were playing came to end, the last note still faintly reverberating off the walls back to your ears. Your back stiffened slightly as you became aware of another presence in the room.

“Despite all the misgivings of your personality and overall dullness, you play well.” Mycroft said. You didn’t know whether to be offended that he called you dull or to be pleased that for the first time since you met him, Mycroft paid you a compliment. You decided not to draw attention to it in case the elder Holmes brother realized that he was starting to thaw out and become human.

“Why?” You asked, swinging around on the bench to face him. “Why show me this?”  

Mycroft studied you like one would a beetle crawling across the pavement. “I have a general dislike for crowds and you but I have an unfortunate tendency to pity those who make themselves out to look like a fool in front of an audience. Besides in here, you were the least likely to do more damage to my property.”

“So the Ice Man has a heart after all.” You muttered to yourself forgetting about the acoustics of the room. Mycroft looked almost amused at your comment, the corners of his lips twitched before his face once again became a cool and unfeeling front. Perhaps you could turn over a new leaf and have a more amiable relationship with Mycroft.

"Your presence is required downstairs." Mycroft looked at you with light blue eyes. You stood up and crossed the room to the door where you paused in front of the elder brother.

“I’m surprised that you didn’t send John to fetch me. I am honoured that you would stoop low enough to become a messenger boy.” The words came out of your mouth before you could stop them. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, a frown decorating his thin lips and you inwardly sighed. Apparently not.

“I tolerate your insolence everywhere else because that is social protocol but do not take the notion into your dim-witted head that I will tolerate it in my own home.” Mycroft’s voice was calm and quiet but you picked up on the threat that lingered behind his words. “Do you understand me?” You nodded and he gave you a cold smile. “Now scuttle.”

You slipped out the door and forced yourself to maintain a calm pace down the hall but once you reached the steps, you let out a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding.  People were starting to depart, pulling on their coats and retrieving their umbrellas from the stand beside the door before pausing to squeeze your hand and give you a sad glance as they left.

It felt like years had passed before you were able to escape from the hand shaking and polite murmured condolences as people mingled around Mycroft’s downstairs. You waited until the last mourner closed the front door before sinking tiredly in a nearby chair. Caterers in their black and white uniforms, moved quietly around the front hall and the room beside it, clearing away the glasses and leftover food. John had disappeared with Mycroft several minutes ago and left you to say good-bye to the rest of the guests.  You stared at the wall, hoping that John wouldn’t take long. It had been a very long and emotional day and you just wanted to escape from the presence of the world; to curl up in a corner with a cup of warm tea in attempt to ward off the empty feeling that had settled in your chest.

“Ready to go?” John materialized beside the chair causing you to start.

“Geez John.” You said, standing up from the chair. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“Good thing I am a doctor.” John replied tartly. “Shall I go grab our coats or will you be able to maneuver through the room?”

“Shut up John.” You grinned and John chuckled as he left to retrieve the coats. Once John had returned, you took your jacket from him and pulled it on.

“Shall we?” John asked, pulling open the door and gesturing outside. You stepped through followed by John and together, you made your way down the front path. “Still want to go for that pint?” He asked, looking like a couple of drinks would do him a world of good.

You paused for a moment, looking back at the house as you thought. A movement drew your eye to a second storey window and you thought you saw an unruly mop of brown curls disappear from view.

_Great! Now I am imagining things._

“I’d love to John.” You said with a small shake of your head. “Know any good pubs around here?”

John scoffed as he put up a hand to signal the taxi coming down the street. “Unless you can grow facial hair, I doubt they would let you in to what passes as a pub around here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, leave me a comment about what you thought. I always appreciate the feedback.  
> 


	13. A Toast in Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Chapter 13 has made its appearance. Have a read through and tell me what you think by leaving a comment after you're done. :)

After returning to a more familiar part of town, John led you through the puddles to the bar that had, over the years, become the unofficial meeting place to escape Sherlock’s antics. A chorus of quiet greetings met your ears as the bell above the door announced your arrival. Looking over to the booth in the corner, you saw the haggard faces of LeStrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and strangely enough, Anderson. Each had a large pint of beer sitting in front of them and Greg raised the table paddle to get the attention of the bar keep. John shook off his jacket and hung it by the door before reaching for yours.

“Thanks Doc.” You murmured before crossing the dimly lit bar to where the odd collection of Sherlock’s friends had gather to drink away the pain. Greg moved closer to Molly, making space for you to slide into the booth. John pulled a chair from the nearest table and sat down with a quiet groan, rolling his shoulder back with a grimace.

“Hello ________, John. Will it be the usual? Or something a little stronger tonight?” The waitress asked, tossing her red curls over her shoulder.

“How could you tell I needed something a little stronger tonight?” John replied, giving her a tired smile.

“Just a feeling John.” She replied with an apologetic tone. “Sorry to hear about Sherlock. What about you, _____________?”

“A pint of whatever’s on tap.” You replied quickly, flashing a false smile in her direction. With a nod, the waitress disappeared to get your drinks. No one said a word and you were unsure of how to break the silence. With a practiced ease, you slipped into your thoughts and shut out the world. Quickly the hum of the bar faded from view only to be replaced by an old gym with a musty smell that never quite dissipated no matter how long the windows were open. You wandered among the students practicing their various instruments, watching the bows and fingers dance along the strings of cellos, violins and fiddles. The brass instruments shone dully in the fading afternoon light as they bobbed and dipped with the movement of the musicians. Chimes of bells, the crashes of cymbals and thuds of the timpani could be heard occasionally as the noise of the other instruments rose and fell. The sounds that reached your ears were chaotic and wild like several groups at war with each other yet this was one of the only places that you had ever felt at peace.

“Well Bean, do you think we should get them started?” Your granddad asked, his calm presence making you feel even more at ease. You nodded, a feeling of eagerness and anticipation made you bounce on your toes. With a smile, your granddad raised his hands and the room fell silent within mere seconds. There was a rustling of papers and quiet creaks as the students shifted in their chairs.  With another motion from your granddad, the instruments were readied.

“One, two, three, four.” Granddad whispered before motioning to the clarinets, which started to play a long low note. The flutes joined, harmonizing; a note that sent a shiver down your spine. The trumpets joined with clear, unwavering notes along with the French horns. The percussion was soft and quiet as the violins began to lay out the melody and the lower brass and strings adding the bass line. You began to follow your granddad’s motions, waving your hands in the same pattern. He smiled down at you before turning the sheet music in front of him. You looked to the small, curly headed boy sitting in the violin section; his fingers danced in flawless pattern across the strings and bow moved with a controlled motions that was not often found in one so young. There was a quiet grace in the way his hand cradled the neck of the violin; each finger poised and ready to take their turn dancing across the strings. A smile formed on your lips as you watched him in fascination. His head bowed with a look of concentration fixed on his face as his green-blue eyes followed the notes across the page. As if sensing your gaze, William glanced up, his eyes connecting with yours before hurriedly looking back to the sheet music, his fingers stumbling over the next grouping of notes.

“_________.” Your grandad chided quietly. You looked at the floor feeling both pleased and embarrassed but that didn’t stop you from watching William again with a little more subtly.

This boy, Will as your granddad called him, had a talent that shone through with each new piece that he had been assigned.  The music around you began to fade as you focused on William, his violin singing its melody clean and clear. As you listened, a pattern of notes emerged before your eyes, harmonizing and overlapping the violin. You began to hum.

“_______” Your granddad said and you started because it wasn’t his rumbling voice you hear coming from his mouth but John’s.

“_______” The memory faded from view as the faces of the people sitting with you appeared in front of you and the old auditorium became the wood and leather furnishings of the bar. You felt your cheeks heat up as John gave you a questioning look. With an embarrassed smile, you took a gulp of the beer that had appeared in front of you during your reverie.

“Erm, Sorry, I must have dozed off for a moment.” You murmured. “What were we talking about?” You asked as you set the cup back on the scuffed tabletop. 

“Mrs. Hudson suggested that we go around the table and say our fondest memories of Sherlock.” Greg answered with a tired smile.

“If there are any.” John quipped, earning some weak chuckles from around the table.

“It’s what we did when we were saying good-bye to my husband’s friends.” Mrs. Hudson in her quiet manner. “Of course it was all about violence and drug deals but I thought it might be a nice idea.”

You glanced about the table as everyone seemingly avoided looking in Mrs. Hudson direction. It was hard to believe that a lady as sweet and good-natured as Mrs. Hudson had been married to a drug cartel.

“I’ll go first then.” Greg said, shifting in seat as he thought. “It must have been the time that we had some silly trainer coming in to set up some phony murder cases. Apparently, the higher ups didn’t want us to get rusty; probably figured we sat on our thumbs all day.” Greg took a swig of his beer before leaning against the back of his seat.

“This pompous arse shows up, Scottish if I recall, bragging that some of the best cops in the world couldn’t crack his cases. I told him that we had a bloke who could solve some of the most unusual cases in a matter of hours. I said that this bloke makes the simplest cases look like cakewalks and that he could solve whatever case you put in front of him.

‘Not bloody likely.’ The Scot says in disbelief.

‘You’ve never met the likes of Sherlock.’ I told him. ‘He’s a bit of an arse like you but I doubt you’ll stump him for long. Ah! Here he comes.’

Sherlock comes down the hall with that miserable look that he gets on his face when there hasn’t been a decent murder in a couple days and stopped in front of the Inspector and I. His eyes started flick back and forth as they do when he reads people. I started to introduce the Inspector, ‘Sherlock this is Inspector…’ when Sherlock interrupts with, “MacKenzie, judging by the tartan colour displayed by the bookmark in his note pad. Arrived from Scotland last night and came to the station wearing the same jacket and trousers from the day previous. Not interested.’

‘Surely ye knew I was coming.’ Mackenzie said with a startled look on his face.

‘Hardly.’ Sherlock scoffed as he looked down at his phone. ‘Gary, please tell me you have a good case f…’

‘Then how did you ken?’ the Inspector interrupted and Sherlock gave him the most pained expression I have ever seen on a human face. Sherlock let out a sigh and fixed the Scot with that disinterested look he does.

‘One only gets creases like that from travelling on a sleeper train which one can deduce that you were travelling light without a change of clothes. You intend on being back home by tomorrow morning. There is a faded stain on your white shirt indicating that you spilled coffee down your front probably during a cab ride or tube ride this morning. Most likely a cab ride since you don’t enjoy walking because it would draw attention to your noticeable limp and you had multiple stops to make. The mud on the back of your trouser cuffs came from walking through a park. The only area that rain has recently fallen is Westminster and Camden indicating that you were in Regent’s Park. Which why would you be there if you disliked walking as previously stated?’

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he turned away from us real quick and before I knew it, the bloody station’s doors were swinging shut. The Inspector’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water.

‘He’s something right?’ I said before showing him to the meeting room. The Inspector presented us with his case which very difficult. The clues were a jumble of random objects with only partial prints and shoddy witness accounts. There wasn’t even a body to figure out what had happened. As we became more miserable, the bloody bastard became smugger. None of us could solve the blasted case as he promised we wouldn’t. As the end of the day drew near, the doors of the meeting room banged open and Sherlock came striding into the room looking like a cat that had swallowed a canary.

‘I solved the case.’ He cried with enthusiasm, throwing his arms out and stood as if he was waiting for congratulations. The officers all looked around in confusion.

‘Erm, what case Sherlock?’ I asked, just as confused as the rest.

‘This case.’ Sherlock gestured to the boards at the front of the room. ‘You were clever Inspector Mackenzie but you made one mistake; a mistake that all amateur murderers seem unable to resist!’

‘I donnae what you’re talkin’ about.’ The Scot said but he became rather nervous, twisting the paper that was in his hands.

‘Of course you do. I mentioned earlier that you went for a walk in a park, Regent’s Park, if you recall. I couldn’t fathom why a man who hated to walk would go for such a stroll in a park that size. I went for a stroll myself and noticed some tracks in the mud, one print deeper set than the other. I followed this odd gait which brought me to the edge of the boating lake. After talking with some of the maintenance staff, I took a boat to the larger of the islands within the lake. There I found log that was rather large and hollow on the inside. The track led up to this log and there were impressions in the mud as this person had squatted down to peer into the log. On closer inspection, I found a brown cloth deep inside the log and I suspect that if you were to take your unit down to that island, Gary, you would find the remains of the little girl from Inspector Mackenzie’s case.’ With that wide, scary smile on his face, Sherlock looks the Scot right in the eye and says, ‘A good murderer should never revisit the site he hid the body.’ Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room as quickly as he came in.

Well the Inspector’s face went from a healthy pink to deathly white in a matter of seconds as I organized officers to go and check the island that Sherlock mentioned as well as detain Mackenzie for questioning. Sure enough Sherlock was right. Again.” With his story done, Greg finished the last of his beer and motioned to the passing waitress for another one.

“I remember that case.” Anderson piped up and you gave a start, forgetting that he had been sitting at the table. “Didn’t the Inspector end up being killed in prison by a number of men he had put in there?”

Greg nodded, reaching for the pork scratchings in the middle of table.

“Do you have any good stories of Sherlock, Anderson?” John asked and you could hear the slightest hint of scorn in John’s voice. Anderson and Sherlock’s relationship was at best, open contempt for each other that presented itself in snide remarks and rude comments.

Anderson looked gloomily down into his beer mug as he shook his head. “No. We weren’t the best of mates.”

“Or mates at all.” John muttered as he took a sip of his drink.

“There was one case where he didn’t call me a useless imbecile.” Anderson said finally. The table descended into silence as everyone tried to think of something to say.

 

“I guess it’s my turn then.” Molly said, taking a deep breath and plastering a nervous smile on her face. She reached forward and took a large gulp of beer before setting it back on the table. She didn’t make eye contact, twisting her mug in circles.

“You don’t have to tell us dear.” Mrs. Hudson said, placing her hand over Molly’s. “It’s not easy to talk of dead loved ones when the memories are fresh.”

“Yes right. Dead loved ones.” Molly repeated, looking down at her fingers. Molly had had an immense crush on Sherlock and seemed like she was taking the blow almost as hard as you had. “Well my good memories of Sherlock are good. I mean there are a lot of them.” Molly let out a high pitched giggle. “Sherlock came in to do some of those funny experiments, like he always does. He was looking through the cadavers on the list before pulling open a drawer and sliding out poor Mrs. Chartlon. She had drowned in her own bathtub, poor thing. I thinks that the husband was guilty. He had been cheating on her with some pretty brunette from his office.” Molly started to ramble. Greg cleared his throat and Molly jumped at the noise, a blush rising in her cheeks. She picked up a napkin and began twisting it in her hands.

“Right. Sorry.” She cast a nervous smile about the table before starting on her story again. “Anyway Sherlock picked up the scalpel and made a cut just above her stomach. As he made the second incision, he punctured the stomach cavity which caused the pressure that had built up to release. It went pop, all over Sherlock. He was covered in stomach bile and blood.”

Greg pushed the pig scratchings away from him as the Mrs. Hudson muttered to herself.

“Does that happen frequently?” Anderson asked, leaning forward, the interest displayed on his face.

“More often than you think.” Molly answered, excitedly. “Sometimes there is so much pressure built up that...”

“Mrs. Hudson, do you have a fond memory of Sherlock?” John interrupted as Greg began to look a little green. You let out a little chuckle as Mrs. Hudson began to talk.

“There are so many memories of poor Sherlock. The day Sherlock told me that he would help me convict my husband was the first day I had hope in a very long time.” Mrs. Hudson said with a motherly smile. “The police wouldn’t help me, they were in my husband’s pocket. Paid them with the drug money, he did and after the private investigators I had hired turned up dead, I didn’t know where to turn. There were whispers of a man from back home that would be able to help me so I stole away from our house one night and boarded a plane. It wasn’t long before my husband realized that I was missing and I saw several vehicles pull onto the runway as the plane started to take-off. When I stepped off the plane, I went in search of Sherlock. It was so lovely to walk about the city again, hearing the hustle and bustle of the streets again. That was before my hip hurt, mind you. Sherlock ended up finding me and we had some delightful tea in a little shop not far from Baker Street. I explained my problem as he listened and after I had finished, Sherlock sat so quiet, lost in that funny little head of his. All at once, he stood, told me he would take the case and left. I was a little shocked at his manner, leaving me with the bill and all but he left me with hope as well.” Mrs. Hudson finished and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to dab at the tears that had appeared in her eyes.

‘My turn then.” John said, taking a swig of his beer. “A fond memory of Sherlock, a fond memory of Sherlock.” John muttered as he leaned back in his chair, scratching his neck. “It would have to be the time that Sherlock came home with drenched in blood and had a whale harpoon in his hand.”

A smirk came to your face as you saw the array of facial expressions around the table. Greg looked amused, Anderson was shocked, Mrs. Hudson had a hint of disapproval in her eyes and Molly seemed distracted, casting nervous glances at the clock on the wall.

“I was sitting reading the morning paper when I heard footsteps coming up to the stairs. I remember looking up expecting to see Mrs. Hudson since Sherlock had told me he was to be gone for most the day. Sherlock stood there like a mad man, a harpoon in his hand and the look of one who had been inconvenienced one too many times that day. I was about to say something when Sherlock…”

“Sorry to interrupt your story John but I need to go the loo.” You said, sliding out of the booth. “Molly, would you care to come with me?”

“Umm, okay.” Molly glanced at the clock once more before offering you a small smile. Once Greg was out of the way, Molly slid out of the booth and together you walked to the bathroom. Once you were inside, you headed to the mirror to check your hair. You watched Molly bit her lip, a habit she had when upset, as she pretended to study the ceiling.  

“You didn’t need to use the loo, did you?” Molly asked after a minute, confusion written clearly on her face.

“No, not really.” You sigh, straightening up and turning to study Molly. There was pink flush in her cheeks and her bright, brown eyes darted about the room, never making eye contact for more than couple seconds. “I just needed a break. The stories were getting a little overwhelming.” You said, turning back to the mirror and studied your drained appearance.  “Sherlock didn’t have many friends but anyone can clearly tell, they loved him fiercely.”

Molly let out a nervous laugh and then a quiet sigh. She looked down at the floor before catching your eye in the mirror. You could see the storm waging war across her face as she struggling with some inner thoughts. You watched as Molly opened her mouth and then closed it, giving you the feeling that there was something she wanted to tell you but she couldn’t get it out. With another sigh, Molly placed her hands on the sink in front of her, a look of defeat on her fair face.

“Molly, if there is something that you want to talk about, anything, I am here to listen. Always. Even if you can’t find the words now, I will be there when you do.” You said, feeling that you needed someone to say those words to you. It was hard to describe the emotions and feelings that were swirling inside of you but it felt like they were all congregating in the pit of your stomach, making you feel nausea. You wanted to talk to someone who knew how to navigate the darkness of the void that existed inside of you. You needed someone who was familiar with the darkness; your darkness, your secrets. You needed Sherlock.

“How are you doing Molly?” You asked, turning your head to wipe away the tears forming in your eyes. Molly jumped at your voice and a guilty look washed over her face. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before turning her body to face you.

“I’m good. Really good. I mean I am sad that Sherlock is de… gone but I am doing good. It was such a tragic thing.” Molly stammered. “There won’t be any more funny little experiments or any more strange questions about whether we had extra appendages lay about…”

You watched Molly’s face grow redder and redder as she talked so you turned away from the mirror and pulled her into a hug. She made a noise of surprise before wrapping her arms tightly around you.

“We’ll get through this.” Molly said quietly in your ear.

_I hope to God that you are right._ You thought as the tears spilled down your cheeks.

*********

You and Molly returned to the table knowing that once you sat down, it would be your turn to share. You had hoped your trip to the bathroom would have made everyone forget. The worn leather of the bench creaked as you sat down.

“Your turn ________” John said after you had settled.

“My turn for what?” You asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

“Your memory of Sherlock” Mrs. Hudson prompted, leaning forward with a warm smile on her face.

“Right. My memory of Sherlock.” You said, taking a sip of your beer. You were sorely tempted to just say that there were too many fond memories of the consulting detective and it would take hours to recount them all but you had a feeling that no one would really mind. You thought about all the nights lying beside Sherlock, his heartbeat and whispered words in your ears when the nightmares terrorized your sleep. The intimate way he handled his violin, the way the music flowing through it spoke to the essence of your being. The dark curls sliding through your fingers, the quiet smile that lit his face when he was pleased, the furrow in his brow when he was deep in thought and his final goodbye that left your world out of kilter. These were all too personal, too close to your heart to share.

Glancing around at the expectant faces at the table, you finished the last of your beer and cleared your throat.

“My fondest memory of Sherlock was the first day we met. More specifically the first time I saw him in action. It was the case if the lady in pink.” You said.

“That one was a good one.” Greg said with a reminiscent tone in his voice.

“I didn’t think that case was overly exciting. It was just a dead woman obsessed with a ridiculously bright shade of pink.” Anderson grumbled.

“That’s because Sherlock didn’t like you dear.” Mrs. Hudson said, reaching out and patting his hand.

John snickered and you felt your lips twitch up in a semblance of a smile. “I remember it being my first day on the job and the officers began to whisper that Sherlock Holmes, the amateur that helped the police force was being called to the scene. I had heard about near impossible cases he had solved, stories about his off-putting mannerisms and the dislike that many of the officers had for this man. Sherlock had reached epic proportions in my imagination. I pictured him as a rather dumpy, old man who smoked pipes and spoke in a growl. When a tall, dark-haired man in a dark coat, I knew that my presumption had been off the mark. This man had all the airs of an actor, commanding the room with his mere presence.

I saw him pass as, glancing up as I took my camera out of its case. I had helped Anderson inspect the body and there was something familiar about the woman on the floor but I couldn’t put my finger on it. When Sherlock, Greg and John passed the room, I figured out who the woman was. Jennifer Wilson had been recently been on the telly for her controversial methods of obtaining information. She was accused of sleeping with her sources and turning the story into a profit. I put my camera down and raced up the stairs to tell Greg. Anderson was standing at the door and said that the freak didn’t want to be disturbed. I pushed passed him and knocked on the door. When it finally opened, Greg looked like he was ready to bite my head off but I quickly told him what I knew.

‘I know where I heard the name Jennifer Wilson. She was on telly being criticized for sleeping with people and exposing their secrets to the world.’ I said in a rush and the deep rumble of the voice in the room came to a stop. Greg opened his mouth to say something when we both heard,

‘Let her in.’

I stepped into the room and came face to face with Sherlock Holmes. His eyes flicked back and forth, analyzing my face and clothes. I met his eyes only briefly before glancing at the body once more. Something occurred to me and before I could stop myself, I blurted out.

‘The one thing I don’t get is if she was travelling, shouldn’t she have a case? Like an overnight bag?’

‘A case?’ Greg asked, looking about the room as it is was just hiding in a darkened corner.

‘Of course she would have a case.’ The consulting detective said with disdain in his voice, like it should have occurred to everyone in the room that this woman would have a case. Sherlock looked back at me with a faint look of approval in his face although it was hard to tell, I was fairly nervous.

‘When I checked her pockets, she didn’t have a mobile either. Just an umbrella and a ticket stub.’ I said, look at each of them. When this idea was met with silence, I shrank back and left room, muttering an apology to Greg for interrupting. As I started to go down the steps, I heard Sherlock say, ‘Next case put her on forensics.’

‘I can’t do that Sherlock.’ Greg protested, ‘She’s new and Anderson…’

‘She was the only one that asked the right questions. Put her on forensics.’ Sherlock replied and then I heard the door shut.”

You blinked back the tears that had formed in your eyes. It was the first time that you felt that your schooling hadn’t been a waste of time, effort and money. It was the first time in a number of years you had felt useful and it gave you a rush of satisfaction. You had gone home that night with high spirits, all because that strange detective approved of the way you asked questions.

John patted your leg and picked up his mug.

“To a brilliant mind and one of a kind mate!” John toasted with a sad smile on his face.

“To Sherlock!” Everyone joined in the toast and for one small moment, you felt like there was a light shining amidst the gloominess of the evening.

*********

 A couple pints of beer and a very long walk home, you finally pushed open the door of your flat and escorted an inebriated John inside.

“________.” John murmured as he struggled to get his arm out of the sleeve of his jacket.

“Yeah John?” You caught a hold of the sleeve and pulled, freeing the trapped limb.

“I know why you sleep with Sherlock.” John took a step towards the couch and stopped, swaying on the spot.

“Because of the nightmares. You already knew that.” You said, declining to point out that John had used the present tense rather than the past tense. With gentle hands, you turned John so he was facing the direction of your bedroom.

“No that was just a cover. Just a façade.” He waved his hands in front of his face as if he was opening a pair of curtains. With a small huff, you placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him down the hallway, remaining silent and praying that he would forget what he was talking about.

“You stay with Sherlock because you are two sides of the coin. A big coin like a two pounder.” John let out a little giggle before continuing, “He is your other half, just as you are his.” You froze, leaving John to stumble down the hallway by himself. He turned back after a moment, leaning against the wall as the motion threw him off balance. John blinked sleepily at you before continuing on his train of thought. “You both shut people out. Sherlock was an arrogant… “ John squinted up at the light for a moment, “sod and honestly that’s what turned people off. So rude. You on the other hand are nice, so nice but come off like you’re disinterested. Uninterested? Anti-interested?” John fell silent, trying to figure out the correct word. “You have been hurt badly and though you think you can hide it, I have eyes and I see it. I see lots of things. Lots and lots. More than people think.”

“John.” You said, irritated at the turn of the conversation.

“You have been hurt and I am not entirely sure what happened, Sherlock does and he knows what to do because that’s what he does.”

“What did Sherlock do?” You prompted after John became fixated by a picture of the three of you. His eyes began to water and a tear slipped down his cheek.

“He fixes people.” He replied quietly. “Makes you whole again. He fixed me and he was fixing you. He was fixing himself. When you weren’t together, you were two broken people,” John paused, sniffing loudly, “Very broken people but when you were together, you became functioning human beings. Like people didn’t want to avoid you and Sherlock made jokes. Terrible jokes but jokes none the less.”

“I think it’s time for bed John.” You said, helping him straighten before nudging him in the direction of the bedroom. John bumped into the door frame and giggled as if the door hit him on purpose.

“I think I am in the wrong room.” John said, squinting at the bed, his words beginning to slur together.

“It’s your room tonight. Into bed, sir. Doctor’s orders.” You replied, motioning towards the bed.

“I’m the doctor.” John muttered.

“Your orders.” You replied as you helped him into bed and pulled up the blanket.

“G’night.” John told the pillow and soon soft snores filled the room. You studied the doctor’s sleeping form, watching the blanket rise and fall with each breath.

“Goodnight John.” You whispered as you shut the door behind you. Slowly, you walked down the hall, pausing to look at the picture that had sent tears down John’s cheeks. You were sitting in Sherlock’s chair, feet up on a stool and deer stalker on your head. There was a large grin on John’s face as you held your fingers in the steepled fashion Sherlock did when he was deep in thought. You had just told John not to bother you because you needed to visit your store of smart assed remarks. Sherlock stood behind you with an amused look in his blue-green eyes although his mouth was down turned in a frown. It was one of the only pictures you had of Sherlock where he wasn’t regarding the camera with outright disgust and muttering some remark about the ridiculousness of the media. A matter of days had transformed John’s face from the open and cheerful in the picture to a haggard mask to hide the pain behind. You knew that the woman wearing the deerstalker was long gone. She had disappeared the moment you realized that she would no longer see Sherlock’s disapproving grimace or amused glances or hear the grumblings about cameras.

With an audible sigh, you turned away from the picture and turned away from life as you knew.  With a heavy heart, you made your way to the living room, looking for some sort of comfort. Glancing about the room, you took in the mismatched furniture, the wads of paper and takeout containers that scattered the coffee table and the keyboard that sat by your armchair. Sleep was the furthest thing from your mind. Sleep only allowed the nightmares to roam free. You crossed the room and began to half-heartedly clean up the coffee table. Stuffing the discarded eulogies in the take out containers, you carried them to the kitchen and tossed them in the garbage bin. Making your way back to the living room, you switched on the keyboard and eased yourself into the chair behind it. You placed your fingers on the keys and thought about what you should play but after several long minutes, nothing came to your mind.

You closed your eyes and immediately the image of you standing at the edge of a deep and bottomless pit appeared before you. The songs that you were looking for swayed above the crevice in a slow and graceful dance, their melodies dampened by the whispers that came crawling from the darkness. You attempted to hear the notes, to listen with your heart the way your grandad had taught you but your heart had been shattered and the pieces were far too sharp to pick up. The whispers grew louder and you leaned forward, seduced by the voices that spoke; promising release from the pain, release from the grief that you clung to. You shuffled closer to the edge when the strains of a violin reached your ears, sad and bittersweet. You spun on your heel, trying to locate the source of the music but the player was just out of sight.

_Come and be free._ This music seemed to say and you took a step towards the sound and then another. _Be safe for me darling._

With a jolt, your eyes flew open and regarded the room with confusion. Where was the dark crevice? Where was the violinist who drew you away from the edge? You could have sworn that Sherlock was playing that violin. There had only been two people in your life that could make it sound so sweet and so forlorn at the same time. One was a little boy you had known long ago and the other a man that been taken away from you far too soon. You saw little William cradle his violin in his hand and his brilliant green-blue eyes following the notes written on the paper in front of him, his brow furrowed in concentration. You blinked and suddenly Sherlock took the little boy’s place, his long fingers dancing across the strings. He glanced up at you and the same green-blue eyes studied you with all the intensity that William had studied the music, fingers never faltering in their dance. You stared in disbelief for a moment as the image disappeared and the couch took its place. You shook your head before climbing out of your chair and around your keyboard towards the door. Grabbing your coat and John’s keys, you closed the door to your flat and found yourself out on the street. The street lights shone brightly through the fog that had settled around London after the recent rain. As you passed each light, you felt a sense of urgency growing in you. You began to connect the similarities between the little boy and the man as the sound of your footsteps followed you through the mist. Their eyes couldn’t have been a coincidence; an ever-changing swirl of green and blue and gold. The way each of them held the violin, tucked tightly under their chin but the hand holding the neck with a tenderness that only someone who learned to appreciate their instrument possessed. Both William and Sherlock had the ability to lose themselves in the music, hearing only the sounds of their violin and nothing else. Was it possible that Sherlock was the little boy from the past? There was only one way to find out.

You turned the key in 221B’s door and let it swing open, the walls becoming white-washed in the light of the street lamps. You stepped inside and gently closed the door, listening for any sounds coming from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. There were no lights on so you could safely assume that she had taken her pills and gone to bed. You quietly mounted the stairs, avoiding the places where they would protest at your weight. You swung open the door to Sherlock and John’s flat and flicked on the lights, a small hope that you would find Sherlock sitting in the chair, a trail of cigarette smoke coming from the ashtray beside him. The black chair was empty and the hope inside vanished at the sight.

You crossed the room to the fireplace mantle where Sherlock’s violin sat in its case. Slowly you opened the latches and lifted the lid to see the brown wood of the instrument take on red tones as the light of the room touched its surface. With great care, you took the violin from the case and turned it over, studying the wood. Sure enough, you found what you had been looking for. There was a small symbol carved just underneath the neck of the violin, right where it met with the body. You sank into Sherlock’s chair as wave of incredulity washed over you. After all these years, Sherlock had kept this small piece of his past; of your past. With a shaking finger, you traced the symbol that marked it as the property of your granddad’s music school. The sudden realization that Sherlock had been the boy that you had known and lost all those years ago reopened old wounds and tears slid silently down your face as you grieved for the loss of innocent boy and the remarkable man he had grown into.

**********

Molly opened the door to her flat and stepped inside. The flat was dark with the exception of the flickering light coming from the telly. She set her bag and keys on the table beside the door and started to remove her coat when she heard a deep baritone voice drifting over from the couch.

“Did you bring those fingers I asked for?”

“Got them right here Sherlock.” Molly answered in a cheerful voice. She lifted a bag of index fingers out of her purse and went over to the couch. Sherlock lay with his face turned to the ceiling, eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin.

“Put them in the fridge. I pray they are still viable after being tucked in your bag so long.” Sherlock said, opening one eye to look at Molly’s face. “You were later than expected.”

“Umm, well yes. We were having a pint of beer and..”

“We?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Well Mrs Hudson was there and Greg. Philip and John and __________.” Molly clarified and she could have sworn that a flash of sadness passed over Sherlock’s face but it could have also been the light from telly playing tricks on her. “We started with one pint and somehow it turned into two or three.” Molly walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, trying to locate a place for the fingers. She began to rearrange the vegetable crisper. “They miss you Sherlock but it’s for the best, yes?”

“Yes.” Came the reply and for the first time since Molly had met the consulting detective, she heard regret in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers out there who have waited patiently for this chapter. I know that it took a long time and I feel terrible for it. I have been in a bad head space and writing seemed like the epitome of impossible. Every time I sat down to write, I just couldn't. There was nothing for me to say and I found that I had lost all interest in any of my stories. I can tell you that I have bits and pieces of all my chapters written on bits and scraps of paper and it take an overwhelming amount of effort to turn them into a meaningful chapter.  
> I just wanted to say that I appreciate all of you very much and thank you for sticking with me as I try to figure out my life.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction in years. Be gentle. The song that I am thinking of for the violin is a beautiful song written by Brian Crain. It is called Rain. Here's the Youtube link that will help explain what I was thinking: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJC93aehXV4


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